Living in Interesting Times
by beatlesaddict
Summary: What happens when Jason gets hurt? Dick appears, as if by magic, of course! not a crackfic - I'm just bad at summaries Rated for slash and Jason's language...
1. Living in Interesting Times

**AN: Owing to how terrible I am at actually finishing multi-chapter stories, I decided I'd write a one-shot. Of course, if I happen to write any extra chapters, they'll go up too, but I shall be sure to leave them at fairly suitable endings, just in case I get writer's block. Again.**

**This is from Jason's POV, and yes, there's a bit of minor slash in it, but that's how it turned out, so if you don't like, don't read. Also, as it's Jason, there's rather a lot of swearing - sorry, but if I took it out, he'd be majorly OOC. You have been warned.**

**I own NOTHING, except the storyline (though, knowing my luck, something similar will exist somewhere) and possibly the random drug dealer who appears briefly in the first two paragraphs. I'm just borrowing my favourite Robins for the duration of this fic (which is rather short, and they will probably not enjoy starring in - especially Jason).**

**Well, enjoy, and if you could spare the time to review (even if it's just to relay death threats from Jason), it would be much appreciated. (Also, if there's anything you'd particularly like to see in a sequel/extension-thingy, let me know, and I'll do my best.)**

* * *

**Living in Interesting Times**

Pain. The familiar white heat of a bullet wound. Lucky shot, but _damn_ that hurts. I cough, and my chest is afire with agony. Broken rib? Shit. I taste blood. Mine? Another cough rips through me, and the taste intensifies. Punctured lung, then. Well, fuck. Never figured to have my lights put out by some small-time drug dealer with a pistol. A bloody Beretta 418, at that: a lady's gun. Some lady – the guy standing over me (when the hell did my legs give out? I don't remember how I ended up kneeling…) is six feet tall and stubbly. Smirking, he raises the gun to my eye-level. How fucking cliché could he get? I close my eyes, smiling wryly behind my helmet. Goodbye cruel world. Again…

_Smack. Thud._ I open my eyes, and the guy's on the floor, out cold. The fuck? In my surprise, I lose control of my diaphragm, and the pain washes over me as my lungs try to shift the blood that's slowly filling them. I feel myself fall forwards, but I don't hit the floor – I'm caught from behind by a pair of strong arms around my middle. I bite back a scream at the added pressure on my ribs as I'm pulled into a sitting position. The arms shift to support me less excruciatingly, and an all-too-familiar masked face enters my field of vision.

"Jay? Can you hear me, Jason?" Funny, it almost sounds as if he cares. What happened to hating me?

"Loud and –" another bout of painful hacking "– loud and clear, Dickie-bird." He shifts his hold of me again, and lifts me bridal style. Ow! Goddamnit, that _hurts!_ In any other circumstances, this would be embarrassing, but I know from the blurring around the edges of my vision that I won't be awake much longer.

"I'm not losing you again, Jaybird. Promise." I hardly have time to register the bizarrely soothing tone of his voice before he moves. The pain flares; then everything goes black.

* * *

Consciousness returns slowly, and is accompanied by the sound of Dick's voice. I keep my eyes shut and lie still on the bed, listening.

"- been a bad brother to you, Jay. I should've been there for you. It wasn't your fault he gave you Robin. I realise that now…"

The hell? I don't get it. Am I hearing things, or is the Golden Boy really saying he regrets being such an asshole to me?

"…I didn't mind that he replaced me as a partner – not much, anyway – but, Jay, he gave you Robin. He gave you the nickname my mother called me by, and he gave you a costume he modified from the one she made for me to wear for our…last performance…" He swallows loudly, and starts carding his fingers through my hair. It feels nice… safe, even.

"I wish I'd been nicer, but it hurt _so much_. You were a walking reminder of how everything I ever loved had been taken from me. My parents; Robin; Bruce… I couldn't cope, Jaybird. And then you died, and I thought I'd never get the chance to apologise. So I did the next-best thing: made up with Bruce and tried to keep him from losing it completely. I think I was as surprised as you were that he didn't kill the Joker, until he told me your death made it even more important that we didn't kill – he didn't want to cause _anyone_ the pain he went through over losing you." He pauses for a moment, and brings his hand down from my hair to cradle my jaw, gently stroking my cheek with his thumb.

"You came back, Jason. It nearly broke him to see you were prepared to kill. I can't say I was too happy about it, either, especially when you decided Tim and I were fair game. That hurt, little brother. I know I was a dick to you, but did you really have to try and kill me?" I surreptitiously bite my tongue to avoid smirking at his pun – that's _exactly_ the inflection I put on his name when he gets in my way.

"Heh…I have to patrol now, Jay – I'd better go, before Tim comes looking for me." He kisses my forehead; then his hand drops away from my face. "Sweet dreams, Jason. I'll see you when I get back."

I track the sound of his footsteps away from my bed and out of the door. As the latch clicks, I find myself wishing I'd let him know I was awake. I bury the thought, and burrow into my pillow, willing myself to get some sleep.

* * *

"Dick? Dick, where are you?" That's Tim's voice, and it's getting closer. My eyes snap open, and I'm somewhat surprised to find Dick slumped over in a chair at my bedside, sound asleep, with his hand resting lightly on mine. Going on the amount of light peeking through the curtains, he's probably been there several hours. I pity the poor sod – he'll be damned stiff when he wakes up.

The door flies open, banging loudly against the wall. I find myself fighting the urge to cower away from the silhouette in the doorway that is undoubtedly Tim: he's grown, and what little I can make out of his facial expression bodes ill for my continued survival. The mattress shifts slightly as Dick jerks upright at the noise, tension easily visible in his posture, despite the gloom.

"There had better be a good reason for this, Dick…" The replacement advances to the foot of the bed in a manner that can only be described as menacing. Fuck it, where are my weapons when I need them?

"Timmy, I can explain…" Dick's on his feet now, defensive.

"Go on, then. Explain why you brought _that_ with you. I thought Bruce asked you to _protect_ Gotham while he was away, not add to its more-than-adequate collection of murderers." Tim's voice is venomous; defiant – he really does hate me. Shit. Here was I, thinking I had a chance of having some kind of family again.

_Smack!_ What the fuck? Reality check – did Dick just backhand Timmy across the face? Jesus… The replacement stumbles back, hand on cheek. He looks utterly taken aback.

"He's our _brother_, Tim. Did you expect me to leave him to die?" Dick advances on Tim, threatening despite his stature. "This is his room, in his house – his _home_. You will not contest his presence; and you will not, under _any_ circumstances, breathe a word about him to Bruce when you make your reports. _Understood_?" Dick has Tim backed against the wall now, and _fuck_, I had no idea he could sound that much like Batman…

I clear my throat cautiously, and two pairs of eyes instantly switch their focus to me.

"Uh, Dickie, you don't have to terrorise Babybird on my account, you know… Much as I, um, appreciate the sentiment and all…" I trail off as Dick's posture relaxes, and he grins sheepishly at Tim, who's staring at me in a rather dazed fashion.

"Babybird?" They say it together, but the disparity between Dick's amusement and Tim's bemused disbelief is utterly fucking hilarious. I crack up, earning myself a surge of agony that rips through my chest and sets me wheezing painfully. Dick's by my side in an instant, and even the replacement looks somewhat concerned. I can't breathe. Shit, I _can't_ fucking _breathe_. I vaguely register Dick yelling for Alfred as everything starts to blur. Footsteps; a needle; then the pain is washed away, only to be replaced by the bizarre giddiness of strong painkillers.

"Easy, now, Master Jason…" The reassuring tone of Alfred's voice and the soft pressure of Dick holding my hand carry me gently into oblivion.

* * *

Waking up to find my adoptive brothers curled up either side of me on the bed is not something I expected, but it's actually rather nice to know they care. Jeez – paranoid, much? Guess the whole 'resurrection' thing has fucked with my head more than I like to admit to myself. Should've known.

Dick stirs, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like 'love you' and snuggling up closer. I have a horrible suspicion he's going to end up using me as a mattress if I don't wake him soon, but I'm loathe to lose the feeling of acceptance and affection that seems to have pervaded the room while I was sleeping.

"Dickie-bird?" My voice is barely more than a whisper, but I find a pair of sleepy, sky-blue eyes blinking at me blearily.

"Mornin' Jase…" How is it I've never noticed before now just how sexy Dick's voice is? And what the _fuck_ am I thinking? Does it still count as incest if you're adopted? God knows, but it feels bloody weird, thinking about him that way.

"Uh, hi?" Yeah, that didn't really work as a greeting. He gives me a slightly baffled look; then props himself up on one elbow, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his other hand.

"Jason, I don't understand you, sometimes." He stares down at me, curiosity and something else that I can't quite put my finger on flickering in his eyes.

"You don't?" Where's he going with this, exactly?

"You seem so self-assured when I see you on patrol, but when you're here, at home, you're suddenly so…I don't know…vulnerable…" He's doing that cute (well, it _is_: ask anyone you like) little frowny-thing that he does when he's thinking about something and getting nowhere with it.

"I am?"

"Jay-bird, have I ever told you you're beautiful?" He says it so casually that it takes me a moment to process the actual words.

"I'm _what_?" I can't quite believe this…

"Apologies in advance, and, er, please don't kill me…" His lips are suddenly on mine, and _fuck_ that feels good. Who knew Dickie was such a good kisser? His tongue begs entrance, and I open my mouth to comply, for once in my life totally unconcerned that I'm being dominated.

"Argh!" _Thud_! We break apart to see Tim staring up at us in utter shock from his new position on the floor. He scrambles to his feet, covering his eyes with one hand as he edges around the bed and makes for the door.

"I did _not_ need to see that, guys!" Dick giggles at Babybird's mock-outraged exclamation, and even I crack a smile. I'd forgotten how much fun embarrassing Tim can be…


	2. Of Left Shoes and Demon Spawn

**AN: Well, I wasn't really expecting to write more so soon, but thanks to my lovely reviewers, d4202, Chaseha-Wing, and two anonymous peoples (whose names - surprise, surpise - I do not know), I decided to spend my bank-holiday writing. **

**Extra-special thanks to Chaseha-Wing for commenting that Tim's bad mood was probably down to Damian stealing his left shoe on patrol: that idea spawned the entirety of this chapter. Sorry if it's a little random. And slashy. Face it, anything I write about Dick and Jason is inevitably going to be slashy.**

**Disclaimer: I _still_ don't own the bat-boys; I am not even the sole owner of the idea behind this chapter, and Damian is probably already plotting my demise for the events it contains, so please don't kill me for borrowing the characters.**

**Reviews are much appreciated - they can be used to fend off angry Damians. Anyhow, enjoy!**

* * *

**Of Left Shoes and Demon-Spawn**

"Hey, Timmy, fancy getting back at the Demon for that stunt he pulled with your shoe?" Tim's face lights up with mischief at the mention of the purloined left boot – he spent nearly an hour of patrol last night running round with one bare foot, thanks to Damian.

"Alright…" Timmy, why must you always sound so fucking detached? No matter. I flash him a slightly demented smirk.

"Now, it'll be easier if we can get Dick to agree to it, 'cause I don't fancy trying to carry him into position, but here's the plan…"

* * *

"Sure, I'm game for that. Just…let me go and tell Alfred what we're up to, first. I dread to think what might happen if we leave him out of the loop…" Fuck, yeah! This is gonna be awesome. Dickie-bird may have a point about Alfred, though – I don't think I could ever look him in the eye again if he inadvertently ended up on the receiving end of our little prank. That would be too fucking weird… I shudder slightly as I flit off to grab the necessary supplies.

* * *

"Psst! Timmy! Are we clear to go?" Dick shifts impatiently next to me as I speak – hiding in an airing-cupboard is damnably cramped, but it's the most convenient spot that I can almost guarantee Damian won't check.

"_Yeah, clear. Hurry it up, though: I dunno how long I can keep him distracted for."_

"Nice one, Babybird. We'll let you know when we're ready for him." I flick off my communicator, grinning. "Come on, sexy, let's go." Dick and I carefully extricate ourselves from our cubby-hole and make our way swiftly and silently towards the Demon's lair.

I rub my hands together gleefully with a passable impression of Joker's laugh as Dick closes Damian's bedroom door behind us. Phase one complete! Now then, I promised Timmy a camera… A few moments of fiddling, and Tim's tiny piece of surveillance equipment is installed on a photo-frame directly above the bed, trained on the doorway. I tap the button on the remote to route the camera's signal to Tim's laptop; then turn around to give Dick an exaggerated leer.

"Time to strip, Dickie-bird." He shakes his head at my suggestive eyebrow-waggling, and begins to undo his shirt.

"Jason, please tell me you remembered the spare boxers…" I'm quick to throw said underwear in his face.

"Yep! Two pairs, both yours. What the fuck happened to bringing some of my clothes over from my apartment, anyway?" He chuckles lightly and tosses the boxers to the floor with his shirt.

"Haven't gotten round to it yet. You look nice in my clothes, anyway." I shoot him a mock bat-glare as I finish escaping from my socks, leaving me standing there in boxers and bandages.

"Fuck, Dickie, I look _ridiculous_ in your clothes – you're nearly four inches shorter than me, for heaven's sake!"

"So? You look sexy in tight clothes." Dick winks at me as he tosses the last of his outer clothes across the room. Is it bad that I really wish I'd forgotten the spare underwear? Then again, I don't think I actually fancy being caught totally starkers in the Demon's bed with Dickie. Despite what people might think, I'm not _that_ much of a fucking exhibitionist. Dick can keep his boxers. For now.

"Shut it, dickhead. And come here so I can sort your hair out." Smirking, Dick stalks over to me, nibbling my neck in an unnecessarily provocative manner as I run my hands through his hair to give him that just-fucked look. Oh, God, he's practically _purring_. Quick, Jason, think of something else, or this won't just be a set-up…

"Your turn, Jase." Argh! Dick is attacking my head!

"Let go of me, you bastard!" I get a slightly patronising kiss on the nose as he releases me.

"Nice sex-hair, Jaybird. We getting in bed now, or what?"

"In a minute, Dickie. Just let me find…Aha!" I prise the small aerosol from the pocket of my jacket and spray it liberally over us. Dick pulls a face that's somewhere between a smirk and a grimace.

"Hell, Jay, what's in that?"

"My first foray into the art of perfumery. D'you like it?" I bury the spray in my pocket and toss the jacket over the footboard of the bed.

"Well, you've succeeded in making us smell like sex… I haven't quite decided whether that's a good thing."

"Hey, it's what I was going for when I made the stuff." As I flop onto the bed, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. "Aw, fuck. Did you really have to give me hickeys?" Dick settles on the bed beside me, smiling serenely.

"Realism, beautiful, realism." I'll give him bloody realism! Grabbing him, I bite down on the join between his neck and shoulder hard enough to draw blood; then gently lick the wound, causing his startled yelp to morph into a sort of mewling moan. I rather like the noises he can make…

Oh, fuck! I almost forgot about Timmy! I send him a beep over the communicator, and wriggle my way under the sheets.

"Make like we just fucked, Dickie-bird." He grins at that, carefully draping himself over me in such a way that he's not putting any pressure on my chest, but looks feasibly as though he's fallen asleep on me. I curl into him slightly and close my eyes, knowing that the love-bites on both our necks are highly visible, and our boxers are well-hidden by the sheets that are now quite artfully tangled around us. And now, we wait…

* * *

_Slam! _A moment of stunned silence; then Damian's voice, utterly outraged.

"Grayson! What is the meaning of this?" Dick jolts upright, as if startled, and I open my eyes slowly, acting like I just woke up.

"Er, hi, little D…" God damn, but he's cute when he blushes…

"Grayson, firstly, what the hell is Todd doing in this house; secondly, what gave you the right to defile my bedroom in this manner?" Ooh, there's practically steam coming out of the little Demon's ears! And look – there's Tim! Cue Babybird's speech!

"Firstly, Damian, Jason got shot. Secondly, you stole my boot, you little bastard." Fuck, yeah! For a replacement, the kid's got style – he said that with a straight face.

"Drake, are you saying that my unexpected acquisition of your footwear caused you to invite those two imbeciles" (he gestures at Dick and I) "to fornicate in _my bed_?"

"Pretty much, yeah." Tim grabs his boot from the nightstand just as Damian lunges at him; then makes good his escape via a combination of flips and sprinting. The Demon sets off in hot pursuit, leaving Dick and I to laugh breathlessly at the whole charade.

"_That_ was fucking awesome!" I exclaim, kissing Dick full on the lips in a fit of exuberance.

"True, true. But we should probably leave now, while we have the chance, don't you think?" He may have a point with that one… We slip out of bed and retrieve our clothes from the floor, stifling giggles as we retreat to Dick's room. I can hear Damian crashing about after Tim downstairs. He won't catch him – I've clued Babybird in on some _very_ good hiding-places.

"So," Dick purrs, pushing me towards the bed with a hand on my shoulder, "where were we?" Oh, God. Thank you, Damian – your decision to steal Tim's boot is about to make me _very_ happy…


	3. How to Train Your Demon

**AN: As per usual, thank you to those of you who've reviewed - I appreciate it, and reviews tend to spark off ideas. No robins were killed in the making of this chapter, just so you know.**

**I still own naff all. The Ghost concept bike belongs to Muhammad Imran, I just modified it and painted it black for Jason; the characters belong to DC; and the Walther P99 _definitely_ doesn't belong to me. The plotline probably does, though... Anyways, enjoy, and let me know what you reckon.**

* * *

**How to Train Your Demon**

Somebody clears their throat self-consciously behind me, and, without really thinking, I pin him to the wall with an arm across his neck. It takes me a moment to realise exactly who I'm choking.

"Tim?" Dick takes the word right out of my mouth. I ease up on the pressure slightly, letting him breathe, but not escape.

"Jason, you _do_ realise that if I'd let you, uh…_continue_…you'd probably have landed yourself in hospital, don't you?" Dick and I exchange slightly sheepish looks and remain silent. No, Timmy, we hadn't thought of that…

"Oh, boy… I suppose I should expect this of you two, really. Ever heard of self-preservation? Speaking of, would you mind letting go of my throat?" I release him completely, stepping back to give him some room – at any other time, I'd fuck with his head by hanging round in his personal space for a bit, but I guess I owe him one.

"Uh, what are you doing in here, anyway, little bro?" Dick's gone a lovely shade of pink, which would suggest an explanation for his somewhat clumsy attempt to change the subject. I don't really get why he's so embarrassed, but hey, it kind of suits him…in a weird way, that I should really not be considering. Fuck, I'm such a pervert sometimes.

"Hiding from Damian, of course. You didn't think I came to watch the show, did you?" Why, the little bitch… My little brother can be pretty cool. Occasionally. Dick's blush deepens, and I'm quite glad I have very little shame, or I'd be sporting crimson cheeks, too.

"Fuck, no, Babybird: we thought you were here to join in." Judging by the look of abject horror on Timmy's face and the shocked squeak from Dick, my deadpan is successful. "Joke, guys, _joke_. Chill the fuck out, seriously."

"Not funny, Jaybird." Dick taps me upsides the head – not really hard enough to hurt, but it's an effective expression of his disapproval. I raise my hands in surrender, and glance at Tim, who tones down his glare somewhat. Yeah, I'm forgiven. Good, 'cause I'm bloody tired. Stifling a yawn, I shuffle over to the bed and sit down, flashing a sleepy grin at my adoptive brothers.

"Hey, Dickie, do you mind if I crash here for a while? You two can discuss defensive strategies or whatever, but I kind of need to sleep…"

"Uh, sure. Sleep'll do you good." Okay, I'm guessing the subtle implication that I wouldn't mind a human pillow went straight over his head, then. Never mind. I curl up on my uninjured side and pull the blankets round me tightly, forming a snug little cocoon for myself.

"G'night, guys…"

"Sleep well, Jaybird." Dick sits on the bed beside me and strokes my hair.

"Yeah, sweet dreams, big brother." Aw, Timmy, I didn't know you cared… Comfortable in the knowledge that I have two ex-robins looking out for me, I drift off to the sound of Dick and Tim's hushed voices.

* * *

"Jaybird? C'mon, man: wake up, would you?" That's Dickie's voice, and it's accompanied by a gentle hand on my shoulder, shaking me into wakefulness.

"Hn…wha' time's it?" I don't want to wake up, Dickie-bird. Let me sleep a while longer.

"Nearly 2200 hours, Jay. I've got to patrol soon…" Have I really been asleep that long? Damn… I sit up, rubbing my eyes.

"You don't leave for another half-hour yet, Dick." It's true – this time of year, patrol runs from 2230 to about 0300. Or, at least, it does if nothing out-of-the-ordinary happens.

"I wanted to check on you before I head out. Much as you might believe you're indestructible, I worry about you when you're hurt." He woke me up to tell me he worries about me? I don't know whether to be flattered or pissed off by that. I settle for flippant: that's pretty much my default.

"Yeah, yeah. I love you too, Dickie-bird. Can I go back to sleep now?" The look on his face is priceless. Damn, he has a beautiful smile. Never realised just how much I missed that goofy grin while I was off being the Red Hood…

"Jay, have I ever told you you're wonderful?"

"Um…" Fuck, I can feel my cheeks heating up, and I lower my eyes to avoid meeting his gaze – I can't quite believe he just said that. Nobody ever says things like that to me.

"Anyways, I thought you might like to know that I sent Timmy to pick your bike up from where I left it when I brought you back. He found some of your clothes under the seat. And a gun, but I think he left that with the bike… Still, I brought your gear up, just in case you were sick of wearing my things." He nods towards a neat pile of clothes on his desk chair. Thank fuck, I can finally wear something in my size! To hug or not to hug? That is the question, but I really haven't a bloody clue.

"Thanks, Dickie. D'you fancy keeping me company for a bit, now I'm awake?" Okay, it's a crappy compromise, but I suck at initiating hugs. Period. Probably a good thing hugs are Dick's forte, really…

"Sure thing, Little Wing. You…er…have any particular conversation in mind, or are we just curling up together until I have to go?" Well, I'd be happy with either, but I am supposed to be hugging him. Because that's what you do when you like someone a lot, right?

"Curling up sounds good – you can talk about whatever the hell you like, and I'll attempt to stay awake until you leave." He raises an eyebrow, and I realise that I didn't really word that very well. Screw it, I can't do romantic shit at the best of times, never mind when I first wake up – Dick should know that by now.

"Budge up." I shuffle over to let him climb into the bed with me, waiting 'til he's settled before I wrap myself around him. I like using Dick as a pillow – he's all warm and smooth and firm, and he's just the right size to cuddle.

Feather pillows don't talk to you. Dick hardly ever shuts up. It's actually kind of reassuring, the constant chatter. And he doesn't mind if I interrupt.

"Dickie, you're rambling…"

"Hey, I'm chatty – it's part of my charm. Seriously though, if you'd rather I shut up…" Heh. He always says that bit about being chatty.

"Nah, I like the sound of your voice, even if I can't be assed working out what on Earth you're going on about. Too tired for interpreting Dick-speak."

"Still sleepy, Jay? You know, you needn't stay awake on my account – I can see you when you wake up, after all." True, but I don't want to sleep. Sleeping generally means dreaming, and I don't know if I feel up to that right now.

"No, I'm good. Just not that with-it, 's all." Dick squeezes my shoulder gently.

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that." I probably should've known he has them too. I suppose Tim and Damian do, as well. And I know for a fact that Bruce does. But he's the goddamn Batman, so he doesn't really count.

"Still, try to get some sleep while I'm gone, Jay." He twists slightly to kiss my forehead. "Sweet dreams." As he extracts himself from my grip, I grab his collar and pull him in for a brief peck on the lips.

"Good hunting, Dickie-bird. Be careful." He gives me a lopsided grin that says '_aren't I always?_' before slipping from the bed and leaving me alone. I suppose I should sleep, like he said. I press myself into the warm spot he's left and close my eyes.

* * *

Being woken by Damian slipping into the room, looking marginally downcast, is never a good thing – Damian looking marginally downcast is broadly equivalent to a normal person being in tears. So, naturally, I'm on edge as soon as I see his face.

"Todd… Grayson won't be coming back." I don't want to see the meaning behind that. If he doesn't say it outright, I can deny it. But I have to know.

"What are you talking about, Damian?" Fuck, please let this just be something stupid like Dickie having gone back to his apartment in a huff. _Please_.

"Grayson's dead, Todd. You can ask Drake, if you don't believe me." I vaguely register Damian leaving the room. No… Dickie, you promised to be careful; not to die on me. I can't stay here. Not without Dick. I wrestle on the clothes he brought up for me earlier, refusing to let myself cry. Yet. Plenty of time for that later. I slink down the stairs, swipe my keys from the table in the hall; then head out of the door and manage a melancholy half-smile when I see my trusty bike – she's as beautiful as ever: heavily customised from the Ghost concept bike, and jet black. Dick would've liked her.

I throw my leg over her and turn the key in the ignition, not bothering with a helmet: what do I care if I die again? Her engine snarls into life, and I lose myself in its thrumming roar as I ride off, wind running icy fingers through my hair. I think I hear someone yell after me, but I can't be sure, and I really don't feel like stopping to check.

* * *

Ah, this is it. I turn off my bike and leave her in the bushes inside the gates of the cemetery, well hidden from view. I fish my Walther P99 from under the seat; then pocket the keys. Not that I expect I'll be needing them, but I'd rather not leave them with the bike. I turn and trace the familiar route to my grave. Funny… I never thought this place would have any real significance to me, but it seems an appropriate location, somehow. Maybe this time I'll be able to stay here. I kneel before my headstone and raise the pistol to my temple. Odd – I can hear an engine. Somebody else has come here on a motorbike, too. Oh, well. It doesn't concern me.

"_Jason!_" Either I'm hearing things, or something very strange is going on here: that's Dick's voice.

Strong hands pull the gun from my grasp and fling it away. Then I'm swept up into a very familiar embrace.

"You're not dead…" Finally, the tears roll down my cheeks. Oh _God_, I thought I'd lost him.

"Hey, hey, it's alright, Jaybird, I'm here. It's alright." Yes, Dickie. It is. As long as you're here, it is. "Please tell me you weren't about to do what I think you were, Jay…"

"I thought…that is, Damian said you were…I thought you were d-dead." I stumble over the last word, not wanting to say it out loud; to admit that it might have been real.

"Oh, Jason…" His words are hushed; halting, but the tightening of his arms around me tells me all I want to hear. He cares. With one last gentle squeeze, he pulls me to my feet, and we walk back to the bikes, hand in hand.

"You feel up to riding that thing?" I nod briefly, and he hands me a helmet. "No dying on the way home, okay?" I think I can manage that.

* * *

All I want to do is curl up with Dick and forget about the whole fiasco, but he's determined to get an apology out of Damian. Yeah, 'cause the little bastard's obviously so fucking sorry for it. He's _smirking_, for fuck's sake. Okay, scratch forgetting it – I want to hit him. Hard. Dick simply squeezes my hand as he walks past the Demon, not even looking at him as he whispers,

"I'm disappointed in you, Damian. I thought you were better than that." Before leading me up the stairs to his room. "_Now_ we can curl up together and forget the whole fiasco." So I wrap my arms around him and fall asleep with my head on his shoulder.

* * *

I wake to see Dick smiling softly at the small card he has in his hand. He holds it in front of my face so I can read it, too.

'_Todd and Grayson, you have my apologies. Damian.'_

I grin up at Dick, fighting the urge to wince as I realise that my flight from the manor seems to have split my stitches.

"Well done, Dickie – you seem to have tamed the Demon." He laughs lightly at that.

"He's not a Demon, Jason."

"Whatever you say, Dickie-bird. Now, can we go and find Alfred? I think I need to be attacked with a needle again." Despite the disapproving look he gives me, I suspect Dick appreciates my flippancy. He always did hate taking things seriously: that was what the 'holies' were for – lightening the mood.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather just have new stitches, Jaybird?" Smart-ass…


	4. Why Go Renegade?

**AN: Thankyou, Chaseha-Wing, for pointing out that I neglected to explain what was going on in Jason's head and why he appeared to have been going all OOC. Hopefully this chapter will rectify that. I apologise if it's a little short, but I wanted to tie up my loose ends a bit before I go on to any more big events. In other words, PLOT is developing. And Jason is back to being all snarky and angry. Hope this works okay: it was mostly a plot-bunny that attacked me this morning and has been harassing me all through work to sit down and write (also, not 100% sure that Bludhaven is the correct location for Dick's apartment at whatever time in the overall Batman timeline this slots in, but please just roll with it, if I've screwed up my locations). Here goes nothing...**

* * *

**Why Go Renegade?**

Having stitches isn't fun. I'm beginning to regret the defiant glare I gave Alfred when he did that eyebrow-raising thing at me. Why is it he always seems to see right through me? Seriously – Alfred is as close to omniscient as it's possible for a human to be.

"Perhaps you could be a little more careful with this set, Master Jason." That's Alfred-speak for 'if you pull a stunt like that again, you'll have more than just stitches to worry about'. Well, that's how I'd say it, anyway. Alfred wouldn't _actually_ hurt me, but he's not above cutting off my pancake supply, so I'll behave.

"C'mon, Jase – I want a word with you." Why does Dickie sound so serious all of a sudden?

"Okay." I let him lead me into the next room, hoping that Alfred won't overhear whatever it is Dick wants to say to me. Because that would likely result in even fucking _stricter_ limits on what I can get away with doing.

"Jason, you fancy explaining to me why I found you with a gun against your head? That's not normal, Jay. I didn't think you were that unstable, but…"

"Dickie, now would be a good time to shut the fuck up…" I shouldn't want to hit him, I really shouldn't, but _fuck_ I hate him _mothering_ me.

"Jay, if you want help, I'm here, or we can find a –"

"No! Dick, I am _not_ fucking suicidal! Got that? See these?" I hold out my left arm and gesture to the tiny scars on the inside of my elbow, "They're from all the times I've sat there with a kris, thinking I'd just about had enough of life, and every time – every single _fucking_ time – I decided I'd rather blow something up, because dying ain't all it's cracked up to be. I'll admit to being destructive – hell, I'll accept you calling me a homicidal maniac, 'cause it's probably true – but I am _not _about to turn around and kill myself when there's the option of causing chaos. Comprendé?" Judging by the way Dick's backed away from me over the course of my little rant, I probably look as angry as I feel.

"You wouldn't have had much luck if you _had_ wanted to shoot yourself, anyway. I emptied the clip when I was checking your bike and found the gun." I whip round and slam a right hook into Tim's jaw before I fully process what I'm doing. He drops like a stone: evidently he wasn't expecting that. Oops… He shouldn't just appear behind me when Dickie's got me all riled up, but still, I don't normally lash out at friends, do I? Fuck, I lash out at _anyone_ when I'm pissed off.

I drop to one knee and shake Tim's shoulder gently. He groans, and his eyes flicker open.

"Ow…" Talk about stating the obvious, kid. Dick glares at me as he kneels to the other side of Tim and helps him sit up.

"You okay, Timmy?" Tim blinks and rubs his jaw.

"Yeah, Dick, I'm fine. Shouldn't've snuck up on Jason. Never a good plan, that." Oh, Timmy, you're a marvel.

"Sorry, Babybird. Wasn't thinking." Yeah, it's a crap apology, but there's no need to give me a bat-glare, Dickie.

"What's new there?" Okay, I'm guessing there's no permanent damage if he's cracking that one. I get to my feet and hold out a hand to Tim, letting him pull himself up. He gives me a small smile, and I pull him into an impulsive one-armed hug.

"No hard feelings, little brother." Tim grins at my awkward attempt to patch things up as I release him and punches my shoulder lightly.

"Just don't hit me so hard next time." Dick sort of growls at that, and Tim and I raise our eyebrows at him, before breaking out laughing. Trust Dick to get pissed off when even _Tim_ realises it was nothing personal. He's such a mother hen sometimes.

"There won't _be_ a next time. Jason's coming back to Blüdhaven with me – Nightwing can commute for patrol."

"What the _fuck_, Dick?" What the hell gave him the right to make that decision for me?

"Face it, Jason: having you staying here isn't safe for Tim and Dami." So he's getting self-righteous now, is he? Fuck that.

"If I'm that fucking dangerous, why the hell do you want me in your apartment?" I would dearly like to have my kris with me, just to have something pointy to gesture with…

"You're my brother, and you're hurt. Funnily enough, I'd like to make sure you don't get yourself killed."

"So I'm incapable of protecting myself, am I? _Thanks_, but I'd rather not stay with you if you're going to keep being such a _dick._" He lashes out with his left hand, but I catch the fist and slam an uppercut into his diaphragm with my free hand, leaving him gasping. I wrench the apartment key off my keyring and throw it to Tim – I'll use the spare. "Feel free to visit any time you like, Babybird. I'd appreciate the company." Turning on my heel, I walk out, keeping a straight face in case Alfred sees me. I should probably feel bad about pulling that one on Dick, but I didn't hit him hard enough to do any serious damage: I just wanted to prove I could get a potentially-lethal strike in. He won't recover fast enough to catch me before I reach my bike.

"Jay! Wait up!" The fuck? Timmy?

"What's up, little bro?"

"You know he didn't mean that, Jason. He's just gone all overprotective. Give him a chance to calm down before you just run off." Tim makes to hand me back my key; I push his hand away gently.

"Keep it, Tim. I'll stick around for now, but when I _do_ go, the offer still stands – any time Dick or Bruce goes 'daddy-bats' on you, you can crash at my place. I grab a notepad and pen from the hall table and scrawl down my address for him. He takes the paper with a smile, and grabs my arm to pull me towards the lounge.

"Come on, let's find something to do while we wait for Dick."

"Like what?" I wink suggestively, just to mess with his head.

"Chess." He says decisively, grinning at my attempt to wind him up. I guess he got wise to my sense of humour.

"Okay, but you play white." Tim raises an eyebrow at me.

"Why?"

"Because, unlike me, if you were a girl, you'd entitled to wear white on your wedding day." Ahah! _There's_ the blush I've been trying for!

"_Jason!_ What the heck? Do you spend your life _trying_ to embarrass people?"

"Pretty much, yeah." We both burst out laughing again. I wonder why the idea of Timmy as Robin used to bug me so much – he's a nice kid. Then again, that was probably part of the problem: he was always better suited to the job than I ever was. But I'm Red Hood now, and he's Red Robin, and that suits me just fine.


	5. Why Tim is an Awesome Ally

**AN: Okay, so thanks again to my wonderful reviewers, especially Seafalcon (who reminded me of the necessity of vengeance on Damian) and Chaseha-Wing (whose consistent feedback is very good at persuading me to write more of this). I have no idea where this chapter came from, but I hope you enjoy it.**

**Please note - This will be the last chapter up for a while, due to the fact that I have important exams; my Navy recruiting test; and a stunt-riding course all in the next two-and-a-bit weeks. There'll probably be more after that, but I just won't have the time to write much while I'm so busy. Sorry :/**

**Anyhow, have fun reading this chapter, and I shall supply more for those who want it as soon as I can.**

**(Guess what? I still don't own it! Just thought I should say so. Again...)**

* * *

**Why Tim Is an Awesome Ally**

"Hey, Timmy…" I have given up on trying to beat Tim at chess. It just isn't going to happen – the kid's a natural and I don't have the skill to see through his strategies until he's almost got me in check.

"Yeah?" Having a conversation with Tim whilst he's upside-down on the couch next to me is slightly peculiar, but it fills the time. And I have an idea.

"We both agree that Damian's a jerk, right?"

"Yes…" Tim draws the word out and does something like a sit-up so that he can look at me properly, rather than talking to me from knee-level. His new position looks distinctly uncomfortable, but I've certainly got his attention.

"How does a little payback sound to you?" Ah, the look on his face says it all!

"When do we start?" This is going to be wonderful…

"Right now. He won't know what's hit him…" And now, to explain the plot…

* * *

"Let me get this straight, your evil plan to drive Damian mad is to _be nice to him_? On what planet is that supposed to be payback?" Okay, Timmy, no need to get quite so close to my face to insult my master plan.

"Timmy, Timmy, Timmy… When have you ever been remotely pleasant to the Demon before?"

"Uh…when I was planning something, I guess…" 3, 2, 1… "Oh! I see: we're going to make him utterly paranoid. That could work, I suppose."

"_Could_ work? I'm telling you, Timmy, he'll be so determined not to get caught out that he'll make an idiot of himself." Preferably in front of our dear Dickie-bird. That would be the icing on the cake.

"I remain sceptical, but alright, I'll try it. If it fails, you are taking the blame for plan B."

"Plan B?" I'm not sure I like the sound of this…

"We knock him out, tie him up with ribbons, and leave him in Dick's bed." Okay, I can go with that.

"Deal." I extend a hand to Tim and he shakes it firmly, grinning evilly. Gotta give him credit for the creepy grin.

"In which case, what's say we bake cookies for him?" Damian will probably think we're trying to poison him. Come to think of it, the results of our efforts will probably be inedible, but it's the thought that counts, right?

"Awesome. We should probably ask Alfred first, though." Tim nods thoughtfully at that, and I'm beginning to think that he likes me better when I'm fairly logical. Which would make sense, considering he operates almost entirely on logic… I'm not totally sure he really trusts his emotions at all. Shame: he'd be even more fun if he was a little more impulsive.

* * *

Why the fuck did I agree to bake? I do not enjoy being covered in flour. What part of 'don't throw it to me' did Timmy not understand?

"Sorry, Jase… I didn't realise it was open." At least he has the grace to look sheepish about it.

"Forget it. Let's just get the damned things into the oven as soon as possible." We _are_ supposed to be cooperating, after all, and I can always have a shower whilst the cookies are in the oven. I'll have to borrow some more of Dick's clothes, though – I'm not going to get the flour off mine without washing them, and I refuse to spend the rest of the day in the nude. Not with the Demon in the house, anyway.

"Okay. What happened to the eggs?"

"They're already in the bowl, Timmy…" He's really not very good at this. Not that I should be one to talk…

"Oh. Right. Er…just mix it, then, I guess." _Finally_: a clear instruction. And the mix smells okay, so I'm assuming it won't actually be lethal once it's cooked. Hopefully. Admittedly, that assumption is made purely based on the fact that we didn't put anything poisonous in, and we've managed to create something that looks and smells approximately like cookie dough. What it will taste like remains to be seen.

After narrowly avoiding making an awful mess when arranging the cookies on the baking tray that Alfred found for us, Tim slides the whole lot into the oven and closes the door with a triumphant grin. Phase one complete. Now we just have to clear up the kitchen. This may be easier said than done…

"Jay, go and shower – I'll get this." Oh, yeah: Tim's a clean-freak. Well, that makes my life easier, I suppose.

"Thanks, Timmy. Back in a bit…"

* * *

It's a good thing Dick likes to wear loose clothes around the house, or I would be seriously uncomfortable right now. As it is, I feel like a stripper. Seriously, I know Dick's not exactly heavily-built, but this t-shirt is ridiculously close-fitting. And let's not get started on the jeans. I sincerely hope Timmy doesn't laugh, or I may have to hit him. Hard.

I creep out of my room and down the stairs; briefly checking that Damian isn't around before making my way to the kitchen, which has miraculously become spotless in my ten-minute absence. Tim raises an eyebrow at me, but doesn't pass comment on the outfit. Good. I sniff the air tentatively, and am pleasantly surprised by the smell emanating from the oven.

"Smells like we did something right, huh, Timmy?"

"If you're that confident, _you_ can be the one to test them when they're ready." Why can the kid never just look on the fucking bright side? Bloody pessimist. No, that's unfair – he is perfectly capable of enthusiasm when he's confident about something. Just not where our baking skills are concerned, evidently.

"Hmm…I'll think about it. How long until we can get them out?"

"Not long. Five minutes or so, if I remember rightly." Sounds about right. I wonder what Dick will make of our endeavours. That's a point…

"Where's Dickie? I haven't seen him since…"

"Since you hit him?" Stop it with the conspiratorial smirk, Timmy, seriously.

"Er, yeah."

"He went out while you were in the shower. Probably gone to complain to Wally about your general lack of appreciation for his attempts to protect everyone from each other." I should've guessed. Even given the extent to which I've been out of touch with my 'family', I know Dick goes to Wally when he's pissed off or upset. That's what friends are for, apparently. Not that I would know, having never really been the trusting sort.

"D'you reckon he'll be back any time soon?" Much as I hate to admit it, I kind of miss him.

"Why? Lovesick already?" Grabbing the nearest knife and holding it an inch from Tim's throat is probably not totally justified, but I don't like him ribbing me about Dick. Understatement of the fucking year: ribbing me about Dick would be a lethal decision, if he wasn't Tim. As it is, I'd feel bad about killing him. Not that he knows that, if the look on his face is anything to go by.

"Shut it, kid." I jab the knife forwards so that it almost brushes his skin; then stick it back into the knife-block I got it from.

"Okay, okay. Jeez, Jason, no need to get so wound up about it."

"Whatever. Just…don't bring it up again. Please…" Fuck, I sound ridiculous.

"Sure thing. Anyway, you fancy getting the cookies out now?" Timmy, you are an angel, and I don't deserve you at all.

I take the tea-towel he offers me, open the oven door and carefully extract the products of our baking session.

"Wow – they actually look edible." Tim comments as I set them down on the worktop. He turns the oven off and grins at me.

"I'm assuming we let them cool a bit before we have to check they aren't toxic…"

"We? You're the one who's testing them, Jason." Oh, joy… Tim is going to be stubborn about it.

"Fine, I'll be the guinea-pig. You can be the one who explains to Dick if it kills me." Tim sticks out his tongue at me. He's getting damned good at knowing when I'm only teasing.

* * *

Surprisingly, despite the incompetence with which Timmy and I approached Alfred's recipe, the cookies are not actually poisonous. In fact, they're quite good, really. Not a patch on Alfie's, of course, but perfectly edible. I'm quite relieved.

"Where's Dami got to, anyway?" Good question, Timmy.

"How the hell should I know?" I'm not fucking psychic, for crying out loud.

"Let's try his lair, then." Right. He'll either be there or in the cave, training. The kid has no social life… I nod once and follow Tim up the stairs to the Demon's room.

We don't get as far as knocking before the door is thrown open and Damian is glowering at us suspiciously.

"Hey, Dami! We made cookies – want some?" I stifle a giggle at Tim's sudden enthusiasm. Damian looks mildly alarmed.

"What the hell, Drake? Are you and Todd trying to poison me?" I do my best to look affronted.

"Jeez, Dami, we were only trying to be friendly. No need to get so uptight."

"Todd, do not think I have forgotten what you got up to earlier this week." Yeah, he hates me. What a surprise…

"Kid, I have a bullet-hole in my chest. Dickie and I didn't really screw in your bed. Tim has video evidence if you don't believe me. Now calm down and have a cookie." The look on Damian's face is priceless…


	6. A Forced Fledging

**AN: It's been a while since the last update - I've been snowed under with exams. I still have one more to go, actually, but I've been spending my free time (such as it is, with all the revision) writing this chapter for you guys. My infinite thanks to Chaseha-Wing and Seafalcon for reviewing, and also to everyone who's favorited/alerted this story: it means a lot to me.**

**Before anyone gets on my case about it, yes, I do realise that this story would probably end up being after the reboot, what with everyone being as they are, but no, I haven't written Nightwing in the red suit. This is because I, personally, hate the damned thing because it's essentially what he wore when he was Renegade, and hence I have no idea what DC were thinking when they made it his Nightwing outfit. Besides, I like the blue one for the fingerstripes. Anyway, rant over, and if you want to imagine the red version, be my guest. ****Also, apologies if my version of Jason is a little bit bi-polar (across the entire story). That's just how I imagine him. Dunno why.**

**I still own naff-all, surprisingly enough, and the next update may not be for about a week, because my exams aren't actually over yet, and I have a stunt-riding course in two days' time. Anyhow, hope you enjoy it, and please tell me what you think, even if you just want to rant at me about it (seriously - I like constructive criticism, owing to the fact that I'm not perfect, and I'd like to get better).**

**PS. sorry if some of the spellings are the English versions - I'm in England, and my spellcheck only knows UK English, so it may have autocorrected some of my attempts to type in a 'Jason' accent.**

* * *

**A Forced Fledging**

It's been almost two weeks since I left the manor – Tim helped me sneak out when we got word that Bruce was on his way home from whatever it was that he was up to with the Justice League (seriously, nobody ever _tells_ me anything). I've had countless missed calls and three messages on my answerphone from Tim since then: the first letting me know that all was well with the Damian-baiting; the second telling me Dick wasn't pissed off with me any more, and demanding to know why I wasn't picking the phone up; and the third informing me he was coming over and that I'd better have a damned good excuse for ignoring him, because Dick seemed to expect _him_ to know what the fuck I was up to and it was driving him mad. Yes, Timmy actually _swore_ at me over the phone. Which is why I'm sat on the couch in my war-zone of an apartment, waiting for my little brother to turn up, and not knowing whether to be pleased or pissed off that my family (or rather, those members of it that I'm actually prepared to talk to) are worried about me, despite the fact I'm pretty much healed up. Not that they actually know that…

* * *

Tim doesn't bother knocking, just lets himself in with the key I gave him. He's barely shut the door when he flashes me a weary smile.

"You're not dead, then. You would not _believe_ the amount of different catastrophes Dick has run by me for a second opinion on the likelihood of their having killed you. He calls me every _two hours_, for crying out loud!"

"Here," I hold out a bottle of beer to him and pat the couch beside me with my other hand, "Sit down and have a drink. You look like you need it." Somewhat surprisingly, he actually does as I suggest, flopping down beside me, taking the bottle, and opening it with his teeth before taking a long pull from it.

"Ah, that's good. Seriously, Jason, deal with your paranoid boyfriend before he drives me to distraction – I haven't slept properly in days. I'm genuinely considering moving in with you, just to get away from him… On a brighter note, we blackmailed Dami out of notifying Bruce of your visit, and I've edited you out of all the security footage, so you needn't worry about a visit from the big, bad Bat any time soon."

"Cool. You know, if you don't need to be anywhere for a while, you can crash on my couch for a few hours while I…er…_deal with_ a few idiots who've decided to set up a drug ring a couple streets West of here. I'll be back by 0200, so you could get nearly three-and-a-half hours' sleep, even if I wake you on my way back in. I'll call Dickie in the morning and tell him to give you some peace." Timmy nods, downs the rest of the bottle and prods me with his foot.

"Go on, then, budge. I'll see you later." He curls up as I get to my feet, and I fish behind the couch for a blanket to toss over him. Judging by the light snores already emanating from him, Tim's genuinely exhausted. I tuck the blanket in carefully, before heading to my room to get my gear together.

* * *

As I arrange my holsters, I wonder how Timmy missed the implication that the drug-dealers wouldn't be seeing tomorrow. Not that I should complain, but it's not like him to just let me go and shoot criminals without some kind of attempt to talk me out of it, at least. I slip a kris in each boot and double-check my guns – two Browning HPs, a Luger, and a Beretta M9 tonight, plus my trusty AK-47, of course. I know the Walther's loaded and in place, 'cause I haven't actually used it since I changed the clip – that particular pistol is for emergencies only. Everything seems okay, so I smear a little spirit-gum on the back of my domino and press it to my face, leaving it for a few seconds to be sure it's stuck properly; then grab my helmet and put it on. I'm Red Hood now, not Jason Todd, so I don't feel quite so guilty about leaving Tim here alone. Still, I use the remote to re-latch the window once I'm outside, just to be sure nobody can get in. He's still my brother, after all. I slip away across the rooftops.

* * *

Okay, looks like I won't have to blow this place sky-high: my targets are doing it for me. Nobody actually lives in the area that'll be affected by that amount of explosives, either, what with this part of town being mainly warehouses, so I don't have to worry too much about collateral. Good. I set myself up in the best position I can find to snipe from. The sight-line isn't perfect, but it's a damn sight better than anywhere else (I've been watching this place for a while).

A flash of blue flits across my peripheral vision. Shit. What the fuck is Dick doing here? Oh, fuck no – don't do that, Dickie! I'd yell, but he wouldn't hear me from here. Can the idiot really not have seen the amount of explosives that place is rigged with? I shoulder my AK-47 and try to get a clean shot at the man with the detonator. Don't panic, Jason, whatever you do, don't fucking panic. I squeeze the trigger. The explosives detonate a split-second before the bullet hits home.

I'm already moving as the body hits the ground and the rubble begins to settle. I can't see Dick anymore, and I really doubt that's a good thing. I narrowly avoid stumbling as I hit the floor – that last jump was too hasty, and I misjudged the distance slightly. The remainder of my targets are scattering, but I can't afford the time to follow them. I know who they are; I can deal with them later. I activate the emergency alarm on my belt, muttering an apology for waking Tim up that way – he rigged it the day I left, and it causes his cell phone to make the most appalling racket. He should be here soon. God knows, I'm glad I let him persuade me to have some method of contact.

Wait, what's that? Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_! A black glove with two blue fingers. Still on the hand of its owner, and poking out from the wreckage of the warehouse. Fuck. Hurry it up, Timmy: I need you here _now_.

I drop to my knees and catch his wrist gently in my fingers, hunting for a pulse. Come on, Dickie-bird, don't be dead. You can't die before I've told you what you mean to me. Screw the fact that I couldn't actually quantify exactly what that was 'til now, just don't be fucking dead! _There!_ A tiny, reassuring flutter under my fingertips. Now I just have to get him out of the rubble without getting him crushed. I can do that. I hope…

* * *

It takes me a moment to notice the second pair of hands that join my attempts to dig Dick out. I tense, ready to do some serious damage; then realise it's just Tim. Or should I say Red Robin? Guess he keeps a spare suit in the bottom of his bike's panniers. I refocus on removing the rubble.

"What the hell happened?" Tim's voice is terse, and I can almost see him calculating exactly what's safe to move and what isn't.

"I don't know what he was doing here, but he turned up at exactly the wrong moment. Help me with this, would you?" I take one end of a section of girder and Tim helps me lift it. I hold my breath as the debris shifts slightly, revealing the upper half of Dick's body. Tim and I wince in unison. That's a hell of a lot of blood. Tim peers into the hole Dick's lying in, frowning slightly.

"Looks like we can pull him out now. Careful, though – I don't like the look of the slab that's holding that cave's roof up." I manoeuvre into a position where I can get my arms around Dick's chest, noticing with some relief that he doesn't seem to have broken any ribs.

"Ready?" Tim nods an affirmative, hunching over in preparation to catch Dickie's legs once they're clear, so we can move him away. I start lifting, pulling Dick upwards and away from the overhanging rubble. Timmy looks as worried as I feel when Dick's legs come into view. Nothing looks broken, which is good, but there's a nasty gash on his left thigh that looks suspiciously close to the femoral artery.

"I've got him." Tim tells me as he slips his hands under Dick's knees, "Let's get him out of the immediate danger zone, and I'll call Batman."

"What?" I nearly freeze up, but Tim's continued momentum reminds me to keep moving.

"He needs a doctor, and we can't get him to one on a motorbike." Fuck it, Timmy, I _know_ that, but if we hand him over to Bruce, I won't be seeing him anytime soon. "I promise I'll sneak you in to see him, if I have to, but we haven't really got much choice."

"Go on, then." I sigh, as he helps me rearrange Dick so I'm holding him bridal-style, "Call him. And…look after Dickie for me. I swear, if you let him die, I'll murder you." Tim nods solemnly, activating his communicator. I shut out his voice, opting instead to take a good look at my Dickie-bird, just in case this is the last chance I get. I'm glad of my helmet – I don't want Tim to see me crying.

"He's on his way…" Tim's hand on my shoulder brings me back to reality and, reluctantly, I let him take Dick from me.

"You know how to reach me. Don't worry if I don't pick up – I have a few…errands…to run before I go home." Tim's answer doesn't surprise me nearly as much as it should.

"Happy hunting, big brother."

* * *

I was expecting a message to be waiting for me when I got back to my apartment; not to find Tim hunched over on my couch with his head in his hands.

"Timmy?" I'm getting an awful sinking feeling. Tim's head jerks up to look at me, and I can see he's been crying.

"Jay? I… I couldn't stay there, Jay. Not without knowing if…if…" He breaks off with a sort of choked sob, and launches himself at me, clinging to me as if I was…well, as if I was Dick, I suppose. I wrap my arms around him awkwardly, unsure of exactly what I'm supposed to do now that Tim is actually acting like the frightened teenager he is. I'm kind of glad I took my helmet and mask off before I left my bedroom – anonymity is really not useful when incompetently attempting to comfort people.

"How…how bad is it, Timmy?" Fuck, I really don't know if it's something I should ask him, but I can't stand not knowing.

"There was, um, brain haemorrhage. He's in surgery, but…Alfred and Leslie aren't neurosurgeons, Jay, and the margin for error is so tiny…" Aw, fuck… Quick, gotta think of a way to calm him down…

"Babybird, listen to me, 'kay? You trust Alfred and Leslie, right?"

"Well, yeah, but –"

"And you trust Dick, don't you?"

"Of course I do, but Jay, what if –"

"Everything will work out, Timmy. Trust me." Fuck, I hope that sounded more convincing to him than it did to me. It's true, though – Alfred and Leslie will do all they can, and Dick's a fighter. They'll manage somehow. They have to.

"I do trust you, Jay." Wait, _what?_ Timmy _trusts_ me? Jesus, how the fuck am I supposed to react to that? I give him a gentle squeeze and kiss his forehead, because that's what Dickie would do.

"Good man, Timmy. Now, do you want to go back, or shall we wait here for news?"

"Can we stay here? I don't think I can face going back there on my own." Shit, of course, I shouldn't have asked.

"Sure thing, kid. Want me to find some music for you? I'm pretty sure I've got _something_ non-depressing around here somewhere…" Was that a smile I just saw, Timmy? Success!

* * *

"Jason, is this seriously your definition of 'non-depressing' music?" Hey! It's not my fault if my musical taste is a bit on the dark side.

"What's depressing about Skillet?"

"Apart from the fact that this particular song appears to be about comforting a suicidal friend? Nothing." Okay, so he may have a point, but 'The Last Night' is one of my favourites.

"Don't knock it, Babybird – it reminds me of him." Yeah, call me a fucking loony if you like, but it really does remind me of how it felt to have Dick's arms around me as I fell asleep. Maybe that's just me reading too much into it, but whatever…

"It does? How?" Oh, Timmy, why do you always ask the awkward questions?

"Just…fuck it, I dunno…that feeling of not being alone anymore, you know? Having someone to rely on, for once." Even if it _does_ mean I have to endure being randomly hugged at every opportunity: never quite got used to that, though it was…nice, I guess.

"I always thought 'Those Nights' fitted him better, but I can see what you mean…"

"_You_ listen to Skillet too? Well, fuck, I didn't see _that_ coming…" Tim smirks at me.

"You weren't the only one who felt lonely, Jay." Fair enough, but I still can't quite picture it, somehow. "Just out of curiosity, is this genuinely the least depressing music you have?"

"Um…depends on how depressing you rate Yellowcard and Rise Against as being, I guess. And there might be a Relient K album in my bedroom…unless that was the one I lent Roy last April and haven't actually got back yet… Most of my CDs were already here when I moved in; they were okay, so I didn't throw them out."

The buzzing of Tim's phone shuts off our conversation instantly. I turn off the stereo. I stay silent as he answers the call.

"Bruce?...That's great!...Yes, of course I can get there…Right. I'll be with you in ten." He snaps the phone shut and turns to look at me. "Dick's not awake yet, but he's going to be fine. Bruce wants me to get over there ASAP – says he's had a call from Commissioner Gordon. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Jason?" I tap the side of my nose and wink at him.

"That would be telling, Babybird." He scowls at me, seemingly somewhat irritated.

"Are you aware that you're utterly incorrigible?" Hell, yeah, Timmy – it's 100% deliberate.

"Shouldn't you be off to look after Dickie-bird so Daddybats can go talk to the Commish?" Tim sighs in what I assume to be exasperation and leaves. I head to my bedroom and watch from the window as he roars off on that funny little motorbike of his. It looks like he put it together from parts of various different makes and models. Knowing Tim, he probably did: he's not a bad engineer, really. Even if he does lack spontaneity sometimes.

* * *

Fuck, it's been almost an hour: I can't just sit here any longer. I stand up, smoothing the sheets where I've been sitting – nobody ever expects it of me, but I do actually make my bed. It's about the only bit of my apartment that's ever remotely tidy, really. Call me paranoid, but when you've gone without a safe place to sleep for as long as I did, you get kind of obsessive about making sure your bed is sort of a safe haven. Hence why mine always has clean sheets and hospital corners. It was like that at the manor, too, though nobody ever noticed, except Alfred. I think he understood about it, to an extent. Well, as much as anyone understands my habits (myself included: some of the stuff I do has no apparent cause; I just do it).

I pick my way across the floor (which is, as usual, covered with the parts of the guns I've currently got stripped down for cleaning – I rotate them every week or so, just to be sure they're all in perfect working order), and open the wardrobe, grinning at the sight of the six-foot tall, roughly human-shaped block of wood in Kevlar body armour that I use for target practice. What to use today – a gun or a kris? My bedroom's soundproofed, so it hardly matters, really. I remove the armour from the target; then wander back to the other side of the room, fishing out a kris from the drawer in my nightstand. I turn; throw without really aiming. The kris hits the target right where the heart would be. I smirk, grabbing another kris and throwing it just as casually as the first. It sticks in the wood about three millimetres to the right of its twin.

I'm about to pick up another when the phone rings. After a second's hesitation, I pick it up.

"Timmy?"

"_Hey, Jason. Dick's awake – it was his idea to call you, actually."_

"That's…" I huff out a sigh of relief, "That's awesome, Timmy. Any chance you could put him on?"

"_Sure. Just a minute…" _A brief pause; then a very familiar voice comes down the line.

"_Jaybird! How come Tim has your number and I don't? I thought I was the one you were in to."_ Oh, Dickie… Trust you to joke around when I've been worried about you.

"I dunno, maybe 'cause you were still kind of pissed at me when I left and he wasn't. How come you were trying to get yourself blown up on my patch?" Seriously, I want to know.

"_I was looking for you, actually. I was…well, I was worried about you, I guess…"_

"Yeah, I worked that out when Tim told me you were calling him constantly. I was going to ring you in the morning, you know." And _fuck_ I feel bloody guilty right now. Why didn't I just call him there and then?

"_Ah, well. It all worked out for the best, anyhow."_

"How the fuck did it work out for the best? You could have _died_!" And I really need to calm down – I don't want to lose my temper with Dickie over the phone. Not now.

"_This way, we get to have make-up sex."_ I hear Tim's squeak of protest in the background and fight back a giggle. Because I don't giggle, no matter how much those two idiots might make me want to.

"There's a flaw in that plan, beautiful – you're supposed to be taking it easy, what with the whole head-injury thing."

"_Fuck. Whatever, we'll just have to postpone the sex for a bit. I can still use you as a pillow."_ Now there's a plan I like the sound of.

"And are you going to tell Bruce about us, or were you planning on running away with me?" There's silence on the end of the line for a moment; then a new voice speaks.

"_Care to tell me why Commissioner Gordon found four men on the docks, all neatly castrated and all reporting to have been told that they were damned lucky that the Red Hood's lover doesn't like him killing people?"_ Oh, fuck. Bruce. I let out a sort of strangled squeak. _"Get over here now, Jason, before I come and get you."_ There's a click as he hangs up. I put the phone down and stare at it in shock for a moment; then make a mad dash for my front door, pausing only to pick up my keys.


	7. Jason Contra Mundum

**AN: Okay, so it's been a little while since the last chapter. Really, sorry, but I've been busy with stunt riding and psychology revision (my exam's tomorrow). Apologies that the chapter's a bit short, but I was having a bit of a block, and if I don't put it up now, I won't be able to post until Wednesday (by which point, I will hopefully have sorted out the rest of the current train of events and have Chapter 8 ready for you). Besides, I like cliffhangers ;)**

**Thankyou SO much to Chaseha-Wing, Midnight-Writer x, and CHiKa-RoXy for reviewing the last chapter, and also to everyone who's favourited/alerted/etc. You guys do so much to persuade me to skip revision/sleep and actually keep writing this damned thing. I love you guys :)**

**STILL don't own the characters, and there wouldn't be much point suing me, anyway... Enjoy!**

* * *

**Jason Contra Mundum**

I should have known this getaway was going too smoothly. I wrench my bike into a skid to avoid slamming into Robin. How could I forget that Batman has backup? I lose control momentarily, and it's mostly luck that keeps me from pulling the bike down on top of me as it slides to a stop, inches from Damian. Still, rebalancing my ride has probably resulted in several strained muscles, by the feel of it. I hate Damian for cutting off my escape route in that _particular_ way – if he hadn't have decided to park the R-cycle across the alleyway that was supposed to be my shortcut out of here, I might've got away, but I couldn't exactly just run into him, could I? Dick would've been seriously pissed with me.

"Going somewhere, Todd?" Oh, stop smirking at me, you little fucker.

"Let me guess, you're here to make sure I don't, right?" I put as much venom into my voice as I can: I don't want to go back to Bruce. I promised myself, never again.

"I suppose you could say that, yes." No need to sound so bloody smug, Demon.

"Well, then… Take me to your leader. I've got a bone to pick with him." The Demon looks kind of irritated by my attempt to sound like some kind of cliché invading alien. Good. If the little bastard is determined to lead me to my doom, I intend to make it as unpleasant for him as it is for me.

With one last imperious glare, Damian re-starts his engine, flipping down the visor on his helmet before roaring off in the direction of the Batcave. I follow, well aware that I don't have an awful lot of choice in the matter. I am _so_ screwed…

* * *

Bruce is waiting in the cave, standing guard at the door to the infirmary, when Damian and I pull up. The Demon nods to Bruce as he slips through the door behind him. I see: we're going to have it out away from everyone, are we? Great. I curl my hands into fists as I step away from my bike, well aware that this is going to be more of a fight than a talk. Because I don't take lectures from Bruce – not anymore.

Bruce is blocking my access to Dick, and I'm not happy about that. Not happy at all. Doesn't he know Dickie's _mine_? Any other time, I would be shocked by my own possessiveness, but right now, I'm just increasingly angry. I can feel my upper lip curling into a snarl. This is not going to end well.

"Jason." Is that all the acknowledgement I'm going to get, Brucie? Seriously? How fucking wonderful. I stamp on my anger ask him, quite congenially,

"How're Tim and Dickie-bird doing?" I think I managed to just about pull of the whole 'unconcerned-by-Bruce' thing. Bruce just gives me a bat-glare. "What? I'm not allowed to care about them anymore, is that it?" The anger's back, and so help me, if Bruce stops me seeing Dickie for much longer, I'm actually going to maim him.

"Jason, I think it's high time we discussed your actions as a vigilante." In other words, he wants to lecture me. Wonderful.

"Fuck that. I'm here to see Dickie, not you." From the look on his face, I'm pushing it. Frankly, I don't give a damn. I could do with an excuse to hit him, anyway.

"You won't be seeing anyone until you explain to me why you've suddenly changed your tactics." Oh, for fuck's sake, Bruce, stop growling at me. I'm not scared of your Batman voice. I take a step forward.

"I thought you got my message – I'm attempting not to kill people anymore. Jeez, I thought you'd be happy about it, not interrogating me…" Why is it so sodding hard for him to understand that I'm genuinely trying to adhere to Dickie's idea of morals?

"You didn't honestly think I'd believe you turned your moral code around because you were sleeping with someone, did you? I want the truth, Jason." He catches my right fist as I swing it at him, but my left lands squarely on his jaw, snapping his head to the side.

"_Don't_ belittle my feelings for him again. I can promise you won't enjoy the consequences…" Anger and bewilderment seem to be warring for control of Bruce's expression as he releases my wrist, and I can't resist a shark-like grin. After all, I enjoy being an unknown quantity. Probably why Bruce and I never got on as well as we might've done, even in the 'good old days' before I died.

We both switch our focus as the infirmary door opens and Dick walks (or should that be limps?) out, covered in bruises and with a bandaged head, closely followed by a rather worried-looking Tim.

"Jason!" Despite the fact he's obviously favouring his left leg, Dick manages to launch himself at me with enough force that I have to swing him around me as I catch him to avoid being knocked over by his momentum. He presses himself to me as we come to a stop, and I hug him gently.

"Hello, Dickie-bird. Aren't you supposed to be resting?" Dick just gives me that innocent look of his, and I don't have the heart to be angry with him for his over-enthusiastic exploits.

"I _did_ tell him that, but he was determined to ambush you…" Poor Timmy – he should never have been left in charge of keeping Dick off his feet: it's too much work for one person, even when Dickie doesn't have anything in particular to achieve by escaping.

"Hey! It's not an ambush – he knew I was here, didn't you, Jaybird?" I can't help but grin at that. Dickie's mock-indignation never fails to amuse me.

"True… Though, I wasn't exactly expecting quite such an enthusiastic welcome." I get a rather blank look from Dick, so I elaborate, "Somehow, I thought you'd be more bothered by my dropping off the radar of late…"

"You're back now, though, beautiful. That's all that matters at the moment." Dickie, that is an extraordinarily sexy smile… I lean down and place a chaste kiss on his lips.

We break apart suddenly as Bruce clears his throat. After a brief exchange of alarmed glances, Dick and I turn to look at him. Ah, _fuck_… I'm dead. Stop bloody grinning, Tim – it's not funny!


	8. It Begs To Stay

**AN: This was inspired by CHiKa-RoXy informing me that she wanted something to fantasize about on the plane. My mind ran away with me on that one, and this is the result. Sorry it's a bit short...**

**Thankyou to my lovely reviewers (CHiKa-RoXy and Chaseha-Wing, in the last chapter), alerters (is that even a word?) and readers - I love you all very much.**

**I still don't own a damned thing. If I did, this would be just fanfiction now, would it?**

* * *

**It Begs To Stay**

Dick tightens his grip on me, and I know he's going into overprotective mode. Which may, for once, be a good thing – I'm _really_ not enjoying the look on Bruce's face.

"Before you say anything, I started it: you can't accuse Jason of corrupting me." I can't help but notice that Dick seems to be using me to support most of his weight. Not that I mind holding him up, but I should probably try to get him into bed soon. Wait, that sounded wrong… I didn't mean I should be in the bed with him. Although, that might be rather nice… Stop it, Jason. Focus.

"Dickie, are you okay?" I keep my voice low enough that Bruce won't hear the exact words, though I doubt he'll miss the fact I've said _something._ Dick totally ignores my question and continues to glare defiantly at Bruce. I'll take that as a 'no, I'm not, but don't you dare say anything'. Joy.

"Dick, go back to bed. I need to talk to Jason about this." Why does Bruce always manage to choose the worst possible things to say? I butt in before Dick can respond,

"He's not a child, Bruce, so let's skip the argument about whether he's allowed to stay or not." Bruce glowers at me, but concedes the point with a curt nod. "Timmy, keep the Demon out of the way, would you?" Tim gives me a grin as he flits away – looks like Damian's in for some serious frustration. Good. "Now," I turn back to Bruce, "what exactly did you want to discuss?" Is it just me, or is that a hint of surprise on his face? Oh, yeah…he doesn't actually know about my last visit, does he? I wonder if Timmy kept the unedited security footage somewhere. Probably. Fuck knows where, though.

"Jason, is this just another attempt to hurt him? Because, if it is, you've gone too far this time." I make no attempt to avoid growling at him. A gentle squeeze from Dickie reminds me that I can't actually attack Bruce at the moment. I am supposed to be being civil to him. Like _that_ was ever going to last…

"Because _of course_ I just go 'round messing with people's emotions. Not my style, Brucie, and you know it. If I wanted to hurt Dick, I would've shot him." Well, I _would_. Ask anyone.

"I don't suppose you'd care to explain what Dick was doing near that warehouse when it blew up? Because that sounds _far_ more like your 'style' to me." Is he seriously suggesting I would try to blow Dick up? I don't fucking believe this. Dickie, I love you, but I really wish you weren't using me as a crutch right now – I want to kill Bruce.

"I was looking for Jason." Oh, Dickie, please don't remind me…

Bruce is right: it was my fault Dick got hurt. I didn't mean for it to happen, but it was still my fault. Shit, now I sound like Bruce… Stop being such a pansy, Jason.

"It's not his fault. I hadn't slept in days and I didn't scope the area properly. Rookie mistake. Sorry." Bruce raises an eyebrow. What the fuck? I thought it was only Alfred who did that. "He…uh…kind of dropped off the radar for a week-and-a-half… After getting shot… I was worried about him, so I –"

The bat-signal alarm cuts him off, and I'm mildly concerned to realise that it's the emergency code. Something major's going on. Tim and Damian race in, suited up and ready to go. Bruce pulls his cowl over his face and turns to me, tight-lipped.

"Jason, I'm relying on you to keep Dick safe. Don't let me down." I nod solemnly, and help Dick back towards the infirmary as the Batmobile roars out of the cave, closely followed by Red Robin's bike. Bruce needn't worry – I'd die before letting anything happen to my Dickie-bird. I know that now.

* * *

"You know, Jaybird, you make quite a good pillow." Dick is draped over me on the bed in the infirmary, looking rather cute. Bad Jason. Stop using the 'c' word to describe Dickie.

"Thanks. How long do you think we have 'til the others get back?"

"Was that a proposition?" Oh, how I wish it could've been…

"No, Dickie-bird, not until you're bandage-free and hyperactive again." Don't pout at me like that, Dickie – you're making me want to ravish you. Stop it, Jason. Mind out of the gutter.

"Too bad – I was looking forward to it. We probably have about two hours, unless it's Joker, in which case it'll be more like three. Why?" Dickie's giving me bedroom eyes. Why is he such a tease?

"Uh…well, you _do_ realise Bruce would probably murder me if he found us in bed together…" It does strange things to me when Dick decides to purr. Which is probably exactly why he's doing it… I have a sex-fiend on top of me, and I'm not allowed to fuck him. Wonderful.

"You're honestly worried by Bruce? Aw, poor Jaybird…" And that is definitely a knee he just put between my legs…

"Dick, what are you doing?" I should be stopping him. Why am I not stopping him?

"Enjoying myself." His lips meet mine, and I realise I don't have an awful lot of choice in the matter…

* * *

Dick's asleep. Or, if he isn't, he's a damned good actor. I can't bring myself to escape while I still have the chance, even if it might increase the likelihood of my survival. And that has nothing to do with whether I'm actually capable of walking right now. I send up a silent prayer to no-one in particular that Bruce won't murder me for this, and close my eyes. I'm too tired to keep worrying.


	9. Supporters Can Be Creepy

**AN: Well, here it is - chapter 9. I apologise if bits of it don't make much sense, but Jason has been left somewhat out of the loop. I'll get Tim or Dick to explain it later.**

**And I know, I kind of slightly avoided Bruce finding out _exactly_ what Dick and Jay get up to, but that particular argument is being saved for ch. 10, because Wally suddenly decided to start bugging me. Sorry.**

******Thankyou to Chaseha-Wing and CHiKa-RoXy for reviewing: you do it a lot, and I love you for it.**

**I still own naff all, surprisingly enough.**

**Next chapter should be up fairly soon, but anyways...enjoy!**

* * *

**Supporters Can Be Creepy**

Returning to wakefulness, I realise that my legs feel like they might be fully functional again. Never again will I tease Dickie about his gymnast's calluses – his hands are officially amazing… And I'm going to change that train of thought _now_, before I get carried away. The warm weight on my torso and the slow flutter of breath against my collar bone notifies me that Dick's still asleep, which is good, because it means he hasn't managed to slip off and wreak havoc. I grin as he snuggles closer to me: he really is like some kind of puppy, sometimes. A large, bipedal puppy with a ridiculous amount of martial arts skills, but still…

I wiggle out from underneath him, smiling indulgently when he curls into the warm patch where I was lying. I really need to wash – what with the whole 'digging Dick out from under a building' thing, and then...everything that happened afterwards...I'm kind of mucky. I kiss Dick's forehead softly; then make for the Batcave showers.

* * *

I'm not half as surprised by Wally's presence when I return to the infirmary, wearing a towel and carrying the spare clothes I've just collected from my bike, as I am by the appreciative whistle he gives me.

"Wow, Rob, you've got _taste_!" Dick, who has evidently woken up since I left to shower, punches him playfully in the arm.

"Was there ever any doubt?" I'm really not convinced I like Wally evaluating my looks whilst I'm practically naked and still somewhat damp, but Dickie seems okay with it, so I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Still… I pull my boxers on before I discard the towel, and start to dress, slightly disappointed that the sort of reverse-striptease I'd planned is now cancelled due to being a wholly inappropriate thing to do in company.

"Well, no, not really," Wally's going off on one of his infamous rambles. Joy. "But I always thought you went for gingers. I mean, there was me, Roy, Babs, Kory, those twins in the strip club…" I tense up slightly, not particularly enjoying the reminder that Dick has a reputation as something of a man-whore. I snatch my jacket from the foot of the bed, where I left it earlier, and shrug it on, earning a suspicious look from Dickie. He elbows Wally in the ribs, and the redhead jerks back in surprise, dislodging himself from his perch on the bed and landing on the floor in a tangled heap. How the fuck he managed to become a tangled heap in the space of a two-foot drop is beyond me.

"What was that for?" The heat in Wally's voice as he reinstates himself by Dick's feet is false – or, rather, it's deliberately exaggerated. Judging by Dick's smirk, he hears that, too.

"You might want to try watching what you say around Jason, Kid Mouth…"

"_Dude!_ Not cool! I'm not 'Kid' anything anymore!" Watching them banter, I almost feel lonely: they understand each other's way of thinking. They're friends. I suspect that Tim may be the closest thing I have to a real friend, and he doesn't count, due to being my little brother. Jeez, Dick's turning me into such a sap… I should spend more time with the Demon – that always helps me get back to being an obnoxious, snarky bastard.

The gentle snick of the door handle drags me back to the present. The two idiots on the bed don't appear to have noticed. They continue ribbing each other until Batman, having led his Robins into the room, focuses his Bat-glare on Dick, at which point the easy banter instantly ceases. All eyes turn to the Bat. Why he finds it necessary to keep his cowl up, I have no idea, but he always does it when he's pissed at someone. Well, he always did it when he was pissed with _me_, anyway.

I don't think Dick really gives a damn about being glared at, considering the huge grin on his face. Seriously, I sometimes wonder if there's something seriously wrong with his brain. Though, by that logic, there's something wrong with mine, too, because I'm not that bothered by Bat-glares, either. Maybe it's a Robin thing…

"West, I don't recall giving you permission to visit my son." Oh dear, he's gone Daddybats. Like, _majorly_ fucking Daddybats. We're all doomed. Oh, sarcasm, how I love thee. Seriously, though, this could get nasty.

"Which one, _Dad_? As far as I recall, there's four of us." Hurray – my turn to get glared at. "Ah, can it, Brucie. You know perfectly well I don't give a damn how you look at me. Save the glares for someone who's actually bothered." Why do I always try to wind him up? Oh, yeah – because he totally failed at the whole 'avenging Jason' thing and now hates me for doing things my way.

"Jason…actually kind of has a point, you know, Bruce…" What the fuck? The Replacement is acting as my back-up? This is _too_ weird. He's supposed to be the well-behaved one!

"I might've been the first, Bruce, but I'm not the only son you have." Dick walks over to me, with Tim slipping an arm around his waist to support him. The Bat-glare directed at us intensifies. I'm not exactly sure what sort of a stunt we're supposed to be pulling. I mean, I was just trying to be irritating, and now everyone's agreeing with me. I don't get it…

"They are correct, Father – Grayson is not your only son. There's also myself, and even Drake and Todd have _some_ right to the title." Okay… I am now officially hallucinating or something, because the real Damian would _never_ say that, right? Damian just doesn't _do_ agreeing with me.

"Bruce… Have you really never thought about giving Jay a second chance?" And now Wally is joining in? Wallace West is taking my side in an argument against Bruce…

"Is this some kind of conspiracy?" I can't help asking. It may not fit my image, but I'm genuinely confused by my sudden popularity.

"Shut up and accept the help." Dick whispers, nipping my ear playfully. I see. It _is_ a conspiracy. Nice to know. I flash Bruce my most innocent smile, which is still probably more of a smirk, but whatever. He growls at me momentarily; then throws something in my direction. I snatch it out of the air and open my hand to examine it. A tracker? But that would mean…

"One foot out of line, Jason, and you'll be in Arkham before you can say 'Joker'." With that, Bruce turns on his heel and stalks out of the room. I stare after him, dazed. He's letting me back? What the fuck?

"Drake, you owe me a cat." Tim grins down at Damian's scowling face.

"Sure thing, little bro." Somebody pinch me – this has _got_ to be a dream. As Dick's arms envelop me in a warm embrace, I decide I don't care if I'm dreaming: everything is going my way, for once, and I intend to enjoy it while it lasts.


	10. Leave No Evidence

**AN: Thankyou to all my lovely readers, especially those of you (Chaseha-Wing and CHiKa-RoXy) who've reviewed. This chapter's for Chaseha-Wing, who gave me the main idea behind it. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I haven't bought the rights to Batman since the last chapter, so no, I don't own it.**

* * *

**Leave No Evidence**

I told Dick I was going back to my apartment to get a few things. It was true, if perhaps a little misleading – I really have come back to my little disaster-zone, and I am going to get my things together. I'm not actually going back to live at the manor, though… That would be a little _too_ close to Bruce for my liking. Maybe I'll move there later, but not now.

I snag the old duffel bag from the footboard of my bed and start hunting down the various bits of weaponry that I keep around the room. I leave the guns on the floor 'til last, as they need reassembling before I can pack them. After the weapons, I pack clothes. I don't own that many – never saw the point, considering I don't really go out much as a civilian – so I manage to fit everything in the bag. There's not anything else that I can realistically take with me – the target in the wardrobe is far too big, and the body-armour it wears doesn't fit me anyway. _Man,_ I have a major lack of personal effects. Maybe I'll have a few photos to take with me next time I move…

My landlord's been good to me, and it's a shame to do this, but I have to: Bat-rule 26 states that I must 'leave no evidence'. I move the duvet from the bed to the wardrobe; then pull my spare lighter from my jacket pocket and hold it to the edge, holding my breath as the flames catch. The fire alarm in my apartment has been broken for weeks, so the room will burn unchecked for at least ten minutes – I've put a damp towel under the front door to keep the smoke from spreading too fast. I take one last look at my room, before making my escape through the window, not bothering to latch it behind me. After all, arson isn't exactly uncommon in this part of town.

* * *

My new home looks very empty, even with my possessions in place. Probably because there's so much more space here than there was in the apartment – this particular 'safe-house' is an actual _house_ (albeit a small one), rather than just a set of rooms. Roy helped me put up the money for it a while back, but neither of us have actually _used_ it 'til now. It's…nice…really, living somewhere that I own, rather than renting. Feels rather more secure, somehow. Besides, it's squarely between Gotham and Blüdhaven, so I'm constantly within easy travelling distance of Dickie-bird. I should bring him back here sometime; cook him dinner or something. Actually, on the subject of food, I could really do with going shopping. I'll have to borrow one of Bruce's cars later – that way I can buy some odds and ends to decorate the place with, too.

I dig my phone out of my pocket and text Tim with my new address. Sure, he could just ask Bruce where I am, but I suspect he'll prefer it this way: it proves I'm still happy for him to visit. Hmm… Note to self – be sure to warn Tim not to come round when I manage to get Dick to stay over. That would _not_ be cool.

Should I ring Dickie and let him know I'm on my way back? Nah, he might be asleep. Well, he won't be asleep, but he probably _should_ be, so I won't risk incurring Bruce's wrath unnecessarily. I nip into the kitchen to stick a post-it on the fridge, reminding me about the shopping; then wander back through the hall to the front door, making various mental notes of where I should probably hang something on the walls to make the place look a bit more lived-in. Oh, and I need to rearrange some of the furniture – there's a pool table in the cellar which can't stay there if I'm going to use it as my base of operations: it gets in the way too much. Once that's moved, though, the cellar's perfect – the house was built the way French ones often are, with the garage in the cellar; so there's easy access for my bike, and because it's not been used as a garage for so long, the entrance is pretty well-hidden. Instant bat-cave, basically. I smile at the thought as I lock up and head over to where I parked my bike.

* * *

I was right – Dick isn't asleep. He's sitting in front of the Bat-computer (Seriously, _why_ do we still attach 'bat' to the names of all our equipment? Dick's not eight anymore!), fidgeting, while Alfred changes his bandages. He beams at me as I pull up next to the Batmobile. I hop off the bike and go over to him before he can decide to run over to hug me, grinning as I find myself trapped in a bear-hug, the force of which would worry me if it was anyone but Dick. Without the bandage on his head, I can see the Y-shaped incision from the surgery, and I feel extremely protective all of a sudden. Dick looks odd without his hair, but it's already starting to grow back – he's sort of slightly fuzzy at the moment. I wouldn't exactly say it suits him, but it looks quite cute, in a way.

"Hello, Dickie. Did you miss me?" I never could resist teasing him a bit.

"How could I not? You're late, by the way. What kept you?" Is that a pout? Oh, Dickie, you're ridiculously cute... And I have _got_ to stop using that word, no matter how appropriate it is. Dick keeps pouting as Alfred starts re-dressing his head.

"I was moving house, like I told you before I left." C'mon, Dickie-bird, don't give me that look, please!

"You didn't mean you were moving back here, then? I see." Why is he scowling? He should understand why I can't come back to the manor – after all, he's fought with Bruce, too.

"Dickie-bird, I'm closer than I was, but I can't live here. Not just yet. You know how things are between Bruce and me: it wouldn't work." He raises an eyebrow at me. Jeez, everyone's turning into Alfred!

"And you couldn't just move in with me?" What the…? Bruce would murder me. Well, maybe not, but still…

"Er, Dickie, do you really think Bruce would let me?" Dick just sticks his tongue out at me. It was a joke, then. I meet his eyes for a second; then we both start laughing.

"Oh, Jaybird, I don't give a damn where you're living, as long as I know where you are."

"Tell you what; I'll have a housewarming party as soon as you're allowed out of the house." Which, knowing Bruce, will not be for quite some time, but never mind…

"Cool. Hey, Jase, I'll even have _hair_ by then!" He looks disproportionately excited by the prospect…

"Good. You look even better when you're not bald." I can't resist winking at him when I say that. What can I say? I'm a flirt.

"Glad you think so. I'm thinking of growing the mullet back." He's thinking of what? But I liked his hair the way it was before the explosion – just the right length to tangle my fingers in…

"Are you…sure…about that, Dickie?" He keeps up the serious expression for a full three seconds before breaking down in fits of giggles.

"Your face! Oh, Jason, I can't believe you fell for that!" If it was anyone but Dick, I'd hit him. As it is, I join in the laughter. Even Alfred's smiling.


	11. Security Systems

**AN: Sorry this has taken a while - I was planning to finish it yesterday, but I had an unexpected sleepover. Also, sorry that updates in future (or at least for the next 6 weeks) are going to be slower (probably once a week), but I'm going back to college tomorrow, so I won't have as much time to write.**

**As usual, thankyou so much to those of you who reviewed the last chapter (Chaseha-Wing and CHiKa-RoXy), as well as everyone who's favourited/alerted or even just read this far. I love you all, even when you rant at me (which some of you may do, owing to the major lack of Dick in this chapter, and the general randomness. I'm sorry about that...).**

**Disclaimer: I still own nothing that you recognise.**

**Warning: Here be cats and a temporarily-overexcited Timmy. You have been warned.**

**Anyways, enjoy!**

* * *

**Security Systems**

Dick has finally gone to sleep (you would not believe the amount of persuasion it took to get him to go to bed in the daytime), and now I'm on the hunt for Tim – it's 1600, so he should be around here somewhere. I knock softly on his bedroom door.

"Timmy? You in there?" There's a moment's silence; then,

"Yeah. Come in, Jay." I slip through the door, frowning slightly at finding Timmy poring over the ridiculous quantity of papers on his desk. What the hell is he up to now?

"Er, Timmy, what's all this" I gesture to the papers "in aid of?"

"I owe Damian a cat for his help backing you up." Poor Tim looks utterly exasperated. Looking over his shoulder, I realise that all the bits of paper are classified ads from magazines. Cat magazines.

"You know, Babybird, it might be easier to just go for a walk."

"…Go for a…_walk_?" Judging by the blank stare he's giving me, my little brother has no idea what I'm on about.

"Seriously, kid, haven't you noticed the amount of cats that get abandoned on the backstreets? C'mon, let's go find a kitten for the Demon, huh?" Without giving him a chance to protest, I grab his wrist and pull him off in the direction of the garage – we're going to need to borrow a car.

* * *

"Jason, are you sure this is a good idea?" I don't think Tim approves of my driving: he's clinging to his seat and looking rather pale. I should probably try braking around corners, but power-slides are so much _fun_…

"Look, we've already gone and bought the supplies for the damned thing; you can't back out now." It's true – the car (we took the Land Rover, 'cause I figured we'd need the space) is full of various cat-paraphernalia, as well as groceries and assorted odds and ends for my house, which I thought I should probably acquire whilst I had transport for it.

"I suppose you're right, but what are we going to do with it once we find it?" Jeez, he's such a worrier!

"We take it back to my place, clean it up, and feed it something before we take it up to the manor for Damian." So far, so obvious, surely? Tim gives a slightly unconvinced-sounding hum, but doesn't actively object, so I treat the debate as finished and focus on getting us to the part of town where I often see cats in cardboard boxes on my patrols. Two lefts; a right; then I slam on the brakes. We'll go on foot from here.

Tim glances at me warily as we get out of the car, so I make sure to let him see me lock it. I signal for him to follow me; then head off into the familiar maze of alleyways, keeping my ears pricked (metaphorically, of course) for any sounds that could be feline. There's the usual white noise of rodents, foxes and carrion-birds, welcoming me back to my domain. Tim looks a little uncomfortable to be here in civilian dress, and I can't say I blame him, really. After all, this isn't the type of place that big-time crooks hang out in, nor somewhere Batman sends his associates unaccompanied. No, this is the hunting-ground of the drug-dealers, muggers, murderers and prostitutes that I spend so much of my time dealing with. The _real_ dark side of the city.

There! What was that? I slip into my usual habit of flitting through the shadows as I make for the third turn on the left, slowing my pace slightly to be sure I don't lose Tim. Ah, yes. This is the place. It's always like this: a dead-end backstreet with a damp cardboard box in the shadows at the end of it. More often than not, the inhabitants of the box are dead by the time I see them – that's life – but this alleyway was definitely the source of the sound, and the box looks cleaner than it might, so I'm guessing we may have struck lucky.

"Uh, Jay, have we found something?" Tim has, apparently, caught up.

"There." I point to the box, just visible in the shade of the surrounding walls. "Let's take a look, shall we?" I don't actually bother waiting for an answer; just walk over to the box and lift one of the flaps.

"That's a lot of cats…" Babybird has a point – there's a mother with four kittens, and all of them seem to be alive, if rather on the small side. I extend a cautious hand to stroke the adult cat's head, and she purrs softly. Her grey fur is remarkably soft: she can't have been here long.

"Hello, beautiful." I whisper to her, "What's say we get you and your babies out of here, hey?"

* * *

"Why is it that you drive so much better when there are cats in the car?" Tim asks as he extricates himself from his seat without shaking the box of cats about too much.

"It may surprise you to learn this, Timmy, but I quite like animals. Now shut up and take them inside, would you?" With that, I open my front door for him, grinning at him as he walks past me into the house. I jog back to the car to grab the cat-bed and a box of cat-food; then follow my little brother into the kitchen, where he's put the box down on the worktop, and is now tickling the mother cat's chin. I have a feeling it isn't only Damian who wants a cat.

"Jason, you do realise you're going to have to keep them all until the kittens are weaned, don't you?" Yes, I suppose I am, aren't I? Oh, well – I could do with the company.

"No worries. Cats are cool. Oh, before I forget, I owe you a key." After a moment's rummaging in my pockets, I extract my spare key and hand it to Tim. "You're welcome to visit whenever you like, but you might want to ring before you come over. Just in case Dick's here, or anything."

"Why would Dick being here make any…?_ Oh_. Yeah, I'll ring first." Tim looks away, blushing slightly. Well, that was awkward… I transfer the box of cats onto the floor, and put a dish of cat-food next to it, along with a bowl of water. I figure we should probably leave them alone for a bit, so that they can get used to their new home.

"C'mon – let's get the rest of the shopping in; then you can help me set up my secret base."

"Secret base? Jason, is this some kind of joke?" Yeah, okay, I could have thought of some kind of _name_ for it, but whatever.

"No joke, little bro. Seriously, you have _got_ to see my cellar."

* * *

"And you want me to help you fit this place out?" I'm not entirely certain why Tim is looking at me with quite such a high degree of anticipation, but I nod anyway. I'm rewarded with a highly enthusiastic hug.

"Er…yes?" I don't get why he's so excited – Tim isn't normally like this. At all. He releases his death-grip on me and grins.

"I've always wanted to set up a computer system like the one in the Bat-cave from scratch! This is brilliant! You're brilliant! Help me move this pool table, will you?" Okay, I am officially somewhat scared of my little brother when he's hyper. I go to the opposite end of the table and help him lift it.

It takes a bit of manoeuvring, but we get the pool table upstairs without actually damaging anything, which is always good. Tim races off down the stairs again. Why the fuck did I decide to get him to install my computers? Oh, yeah – because he's probably the most accomplished hacker and computer-technician I know. Still, I think it might be safer if I just stay up here and let him get on with it. I can set up the motion-sensors. Sure, I need to put some in the cellar, too, but I can leave those until Babybird's had a chance to start work: he'll be okay once he starts channelling all that enthusiasm into focusing on something. I hope. Now, where did I put that ladder?

* * *

Well, I've finally run out of excuses not to go back into the cellar – the motion-sensors are all in place; I've set up a litter box for the cats (who are currently asleep); most of the furniture's been rearranged; there are krises in various locations around the house; and I've attached a transmitter to my bike. I haven't actually heard anything from Tim since he disappeared into the cellar three hours ago, so I'm assuming he's still working. I open the cellar door and head down the stairs, happy that they don't creak. One less job for me.

Tim has been busy. Like, _seriously_ fucking busy. All six monitors are up on the wall, wired up and running; and my gear is neatly arranged on shelves and hooks along the opposite wall. Tim himself is currently fiddling with the door – installing the remote control, I think.

"Hey, Babybird. How's it going?" Timmy's head snaps up, and he smiles easily at me.

"I'm just about finished, actually. The last of the motion-sensors needs putting up before I can connect them in to the system, but then this place should be fully functional. Unless you were planning on adding a cat-flap." Was that a joke, Timmy? I grin at him.

"Awesome. I don't think I really want the cats getting in here, though." Much as I like cats, I am well aware of their propensity for causing chaos.

"Fair enough. Incidentally, have you thought about names, yet? We can't just refer to them collectively forever, you know." He has a point. However, I am terrible at naming things. Always have been.

"Eh…not really. You got any ideas?" Tim frowns momentarily; then shrugs.

"Nah. Why don't we go up and see what they're up to? Maybe we'll think of something then." Sounds like a plan, I suppose…


	12. Family

**AN: Really sorry this has taken so long (and that it's so short) - this is actually the second version: I wrote 90% of the chapter, decided it was awful, and started again. Hopefully, this version works okay.**

**I love my reviewers very much! Chaseha-Wing, as promised, I've attempted to get back to the plot; CHiKa-RoXy, thankyou so much for the names - they were very useful; Amy, well, what can I say, but CATCHPHRASE! (and nobody else will understand that, will they? Oh, well...)**

**Anyhow, hope you like it. I still own nothing, and reviews still make me very happy.**

* * *

**Family**

I consider knocking when I reach the door to Dick's room, but shelve the idea almost immediately. I think Tim's been having far too much influence on me. No matter – when I left, the kittens were getting revenge for me: all four (Ace and Raven, the black toms; Fred, the little ginger tom that now belongs to Timmy; and Zahra, the tortoiseshell queen we're giving to Damian) were climbing his shins. It looked painful.

On opening the door, I'm somewhat surprised to find the room empty. Why the fuck is Dickie not where I left him? Alfred didn't say anything about it when he answered the front door. Oh. If Alfie doesn't know he's relocated then Dick must be somewhere he's not supposed to be. I make for the Batcave.

* * *

"C'mon, man! Will you _please_ come down from there? Bats is gonna kill me if he finds you in here!" Wally appears to be having very little joy persuading Dick to get down from the still rings in the training room, where he's happily performing giant swings for no apparent reason.

"Nah, he knows you can't stop me when I go ninja on you." They don't seem to have noticed me yet.

"Richard John Grayson, get down _now_, or so help me, I'll come up there and get you!"

"Well, _that's_ an empty threat." Dick turns another swing to a Maltese cross, smirking. He's right – Wally may be the Flash, but he's terrible at anything remotely gymnastic.

"That's not the point, Rob! You're going to hurt yourself!" If it was anyone else, I would say Wally had a point, there. However, it being Dick, still rings are not something I'd consider particularly dangerous. After all, it's not as if he can do any releases on them.

"Oh, _please_! I've been doing harder moves than this since I was a kid!" Dick moves as if to dismount, but uses the momentum to catch hold of the flying rings instead. Whose bright idea was it to put the two sets of rings in reach of each other? Oh, yeah – Dick's. I resist the urge to face-palm as he settles into a series of dislocates and uprises to gain height.

"No! What are you doing? You're supposed to be in bed, you idiot, not swinging around on twenty-foot cables!" Wally is panicking now – his feet are on the verge of singeing the floor, what with the nervous vibrations.

"Twenty-two-foot cables! Not twenty! Can't get a decent arc on twenty!" Trust Dickie-bird to correct Wally about the length of the cables. Git. He grins as he executes a flange, followed by a flying cross. Enough's enough.

"Down,_ now_." My best Bruce-impersonation certainly gets Dick's attention: he jerks his head to look at me in the middle of a flying inlocate, tensing slightly. Then he beams at me.

"Jason! Finally!" He makes one last arc; then releases the rings and performs his signature quadruple-somersault to dismount, sticking the landing despite wincing at the sudden weight on his injured leg. I raise one eyebrow, Alfred-like. He _really_ shouldn't be flinging himself about like that when he's hurt. He doesn't pause; just dashes over to give me a bear-hug. I return the gesture rather more gently.

"Hello, Dickie-bird. Care to explain the acrobatics?" There's no real anger in my voice, just mild disapproval.

"I was _bored_! What else was I supposed to do?" Heck, I love it when he gets indignant…

"Hey," Wally butts in, "I offered to play chess! You normally enjoy thrashing me at it." Dick pulls away from me to ruffle the speedster's hair affectionately.

"No offence, Wally, but beating you at chess is not exactly difficult. I wanted _some_ kind of challenge."

"You're a bloody lunatic." I have to agree with West on that one – Dick is most _definitely_ a lunatic. But he's _my_ lunatic.

"Whatever. Anyway, Wally, didn't you say you needed to talk to Jason about something?" Dickie-bird sounds inordinately curious, so I'm assuming he doesn't know _what_ this proposed conversation is supposed to be about.

"Oh…uh, yeah. Yeah, I did, didn't I?" Wally rubs the back of his neck, looking slightly awkward. "Dick, I'm not actually supposed to let you sit in on this one…Bats was pretty adamant about that."

The bat-glare Dick responds with is rather too menacing for my liking – I get the impression he's actually considering violence. I should probably make sure he doesn't attack his best friend.

"Dickie, why don't you take a catnap, and I'll tell you all about it later, okay?" He frowns at me suspiciously, but heads out slowly. I suspect I'm going to get my head bitten off later. Ah, well…

"Um…Thanks for that. I thought he was gonna get pissed with me, for a minute." Way to state the obvious, Wally. I wave one hand dismissively.

"Look, what was it you wanted to say to me?" It irritates me when people don't get to the damned point.

"Hey, man, don't shoot the messenger. It was Bruce's idea for me to tell you about it." Wally looks somewhat exasperated by that fact. "Anyways, Daddybats has decided you need proper papers before he can give you a civilian job, and I owed him a ridiculous amount of favours, so…well, here – read it for yourself." He digs a passport out of his pocket and hands it to me. I flip it open, curious. My photo (wonder where Brucie got that from…) has an unfamiliar name beside it.

_West, Jason_

"What the fuck? Wally, what the hell is going on here?" Surely this isn't what I think it is?

"Like I said, a _ridiculous_ amount of favours. And that's not counting the ones I owed Dick. Welcome to the family, little brother." The hair-ruffle is not entirely unexpected, but it still makes me flinch. Wally laughs at having caught me off-guard; so, after a moment's hesitation, I tackle him to the floor. Brother's prerogative.


	13. Incorrigible

**AN: Well, another chapter; another year older. Still no passport... I'm working on that, though. Owing to my birthday party; my friend's sleepover; a tonne of homework; and Jason being an uncooperative little bastard, this chapter is rather short. I'm sorry, but sometimes the characters just refuse to play ball (seriously, don't judge me for having little mental versions of my characters who basically decide what's going to happen in the story. I'm not schizophrenic - I know perfectly well they aren't really there, but I still do what Jason says when he points a gun at me. Just sayin').**

**Thankyou so much to CHiKa-RoXy and Chaseha-Wing for reviewing...again...seriously, you two are taking over my life: love you for it :)**

**Please don't kill me if this is a strange chapter. Jason was angry with me this week, for some reason. Many apologies. Anyways, I'm gonna shut up now, and get on with the actual chapter...**

* * *

**Incorrigible**

Dick has succumbed to sleep by the time I get to his room; he's sprawled out atop the duvet in a rather adorable fashion. I feel like I should probably tuck him in, but I don't want to risk waking him by trying to wrestle the covers from underneath him, so I settle for shrugging off my jacket and arranging it to cover his torso. He looks pretty odd with his limbs all sticking out from under it, but it should keep him warm enough. I stand in front of the nightstand, surveying the photographs he keeps on it. I've never really bothered to look at them before. There are the ones I expected – Dick and his parents; Dick and Bruce; Dick and Timmy; Dick and Wally pulling the daftest faces I've ever seen – and then, unframed and battered-looking, that one picture of Nightwing and Robin, tired and dirty after a bitch of a night helping Batman track down the Riddler, which found its way into the newspapers once: him and me, leaning on each other; smiling at a job well done. Hell, that seems like such a long time ago, now. I never knew he'd cut that out, much less actually _kept_ it. He really is a sentimental idiot, isn't he? Well, the 'idiot' part probably isn't totally accurate, but still…

Actually, thinking about Dick's propensity for refusing to rest when he's injured, 'idiot' is definitely the word for him. I should really put some thought into keeping him in bed. Maybe Timmy'll have some ideas? Settling beside Dick on the bed, I reach over him to extricate my cell phone from the pocket of my jacket. I freeze as he stirs; then allow myself to relax as he drapes an arm across my waist and starts to snore softly. I key in Tim's number and wait for him to pick up.

"_Hello?"_

"Hey, Timmy. Can you help me with something?" I keep my voice low, even though I'm fairly convinced speaking at my normal volume would be unlikely to wake Dickie.

"_That would depend on what exactly you need help with, Jason…"_ Why does he sound like he thinks I'm up to no good?

"Short of tying him down, do you have any ideas on how to get Dick to stay in bed?"

"_Play teddy-bear. Or you could just try calling Selina. She's good with that sort of thing."_ Already doing the teddy-bear thing, little bro, but…

"Selina?" What the fuck is he going on about?

"_Selina Kyle. Catwoman. Trust me; she knows exactly how to get Dick to cooperate."_

"Really? How the _fuck_ does that work?" I know that if I raise my voice much more, I'll wake Dick, but I'm getting seriously pissed by the implication that _Catwoman_ has some kind of hold on _my_ birdie.

"_Aw, shit… No, Jason, I didn't mean it like –" _I end the call, seething. So much for getting help from the Replacement. I guess this is an end to our truce. It would never have lasted anyway.

"Oh, Dickie… Why does this always happen?" I run my thumb across his cheek thoughtfully; then lean back against the headboard, frowning. For all I've been longing to be accepted back into the family, you'd think I'd be happier now that it's happened. I think I finally understand why Dick left to become Nightwing – having a family to come back to is all well and good, but sometimes it's nice to be able to get away from them. For such a big house, the manor does a damned good job of making me feel claustrophobic…

I'm not crying. I'm _not_. I don't cry out of frustration. That would be stupid. I'm the Red Hood, for fuck's sake – I'm supposed to be able to cope with anything. Suddenly, Dick's arm around me feels horribly restrictive. I push it off me, less gently than I should, and get to my feet, clenching and unclenching my fists as I pace. This isn't doing any good. I should be happy. Why the fuck am I not happy? Everything is going right, for once, and that really shouldn't worry me as much as it does.

I can't do this. No going back. Wasn't that what I promised myself? No going back to being the Golden Boy's replacement. How the hell could I come so close to breaking that promise? I'm sorry, my sweet Dickie-Bird. I press my lips gently against his forehead; then turn and walk away. I leave my jacket where it is – I know Bruce will probably find me anyway, but leaving the tracker here will probably gain me an hour or so of peace: Bruce has gone off on patrol with the Demon, and Tim is unlikely to come straight in here when he gets back. I pause, debating whether I should retrieve my new passport from the jacket pocket. No. I appreciate the thought, I guess, but I refuse to go back to living under Bruce's thumb. I slip out of the room, closing the door silently behind me.


	14. Once More The Prodigal Son

**AN: Okay, so here it is - chapter 14. It was supposed to go up yesterday, but I felt awful, so I slept instead of writing. I'm sorry... **

**Major thanks to my amazing reviewers - Chaseha-Wing, CHiKa-RoXy, and grayember13 - for reminding me that nothing (with the possible exception of college work) should take priority over writing. Also, apologies to my best mate, Amy, for the minimal amounts of Tim in this chapter.**

**That being said, I hope you enjoy it, and I'll just shut up now... ;)**

* * *

**Once More The Prodigal Son**

Chloroform is not fun. It doesn't smell nice; it knocks you out; and it makes you feel all woozy and giddy when you wake up afterwards. It may be slightly pointless to be considering this at the moment, but the room's still all blurry, and it passes the time. Time… Funny thing, time is. Doesn't tick, though. Why does everyone say it ticks when it doesn't? My head hurts… Where's Dickie? Oh yeah… Left him on my jacket, under a bed…No, under my jacket, on a bed. Not my bed. His bed. What did I do that for? Fuck, chloroform is _not _fun…

What was that? I attempt to sit up, but that just makes my head spin, so I flop back with a groan. A slightly indistinct face floats into view.

"Awake, are we? Good. Now, what's this I hear about you running away from home, little birdie?" The voice is female, and I'm sure I've heard it somewhere before – I just can't quite place it at the moment…

"Whassit t'you?" Is it just me, or did that sound kinda slurred? Ugh. Chloroform. Wake up, Jason!

"Brucie and the boys are worried about you." Okay… If she's referring to 'Brucie' I should _definitely_ know her…

"S'lina?" Still can't talk straight…Damnit.

"That's right, little birdie. I'm sorry about drugging you, but you wouldn't have agreed to come quietly." Damn straight I wouldn't. I can actually just about focus on her face now, which is a good sign. "Now, I'll ask again: why did you leave in such a hurry? It can't have been because of little old me, surely?"

"Not 'xactly. How'd you know about that, anyway?" Wow: an almost-intelligible sentence…

"I got a rather peculiar phone-call from Damian, of all people. Something about Dick refusing to acknowledge the need to sleep, and it all being 'Drake's stupid fault' for talking to you about me. I thought it merited some investigation."

"And then you decided to kidnap me?" She frowns slightly.

"No, then I called Tim. I decided to kidnap you after he gave me the full story." Oh, brother…

"You ever thought your life's been going_ too_ well? You know – like everything's about to go belly-up at any second, and you should get out while you still can?" Her frown deepens, and she rests a hand on my shoulder.

"Jason, if you go through life thinking like that, you'll throw away every chance of happiness you get."

"You think I don't know that? I'm _trying_, I really am, but I just feel so fucking _paranoid_ about everything!" I run a hand through my hair, exasperated, and curl my knees up to my chest.

"Maybe you should try talking to Dick about it." Well, _that_ I didn't expect.

"How's Dick supposed to understand? He's always so damned _happy_…" Selina sits down by my feet, and I realise I'm on her couch. At least, I _assume_ it's hers…

"I think you'll find Dick understands far more than you give him credit for, Jason."

"Really? How so?"

"Trust me, that boy's dealt with a lot more than just what happened to his parents." She gives me a melancholic smile.

"Huh?" How is it that _everyone_ knows more about Dick than I do? Oh, yeah, that's right – I died. Guess I missed something important…

"When you're the closest thing to a mother-figure someone has, they tend to talk to you when they're upset." Oh… I'm guessing _that_ was what Tim meant earlier. Fuck, I feel like such a prick…

* * *

"Dickie?" He looks _rough_. I hesitantly pull him into my arms, and he clings to me as though he expects me to disappear the moment he lets go. Not that it's an entirely unjustified fear… "Are you okay?" Well, that was a stupid question, Jason – he's crying; _of course_ he's not okay.

"I didn't think you'd come back…" He sounds relieved, if possibly borderline hysterical. I've really screwed up this time, haven't I?

"I'm sorry, Dickie." How do I make this better?

"Three weeks, Jason. _Three weeks_. Why?"

"…Because I'm an idiot?" That wasn't really supposed to be a question. Oh, well… Dick gives a sort of amused snort and tightens his grip on me.

"Next time you decide to be an idiot, warn me first, okay?" He really is wonderful…

"Yeah. If I ever do, I'll let you know. Meantime, you look shattered – c'mere." I sling him over my shoulder and deposit him on the bed, grinning. He sticks his tongue out at me as I flop down beside him. "There's one thing I don't get, though…" His face turns instantly serious.

"What?"

"Why didn't Bruce drag me back here?" I was expecting to end up in some kind of trouble for running away…

"I…kind of asked him not to. Figured you needed some space." I slip my index finger under his chin, gently coaxing him to look me in the eye.

"Thanks, Dickie." It doesn't really cover half of what I ought to say to him, so I pull him in for a soft kiss; then let him snuggle up to me when we break apart.

* * *

Dick's asleep when Tim comes in. Kid looks ridiculously pleased to see me: he's got a huge grin plastered across his face.

"Jason!" How he can convey that much excitement in a whisper, I will never know…

"Hey, Timmy. Sorry about earlier." Okay, so that probably sounded kind of daft, but I'm tired – having Dick sleeping half on top of me is bizarrely soporific, for some reason.

"Mind if I join you?" Actually, now that I think about it, Babybird looks like he's been losing sleep.

"Sure thing, little bro. Just don't wake Dickie." Tim nods once, and burrows under the covers on my other side, curling against my shoulder and catching one of Dick's hands in his own. I feel like a kitten, with all this sleeping in a pile. Still, it's reassuring, in a weird way. I close my eyes to the sound of Tim's soft snores.


	15. More Things In Heaven And Earth

**AN: Okay, so I was attacked by writer's block this week, which explains why this chapter's kinda short. I'm sorry. On the plus side, I think I may have some ideas for the next chapter, so that might be a little longer. Thanks once again to Chaseha-Wing and CHiKa-RoXy for keeping up my morale with reviews. Anyhow, hope you guys enjoy this chapter...**

* * *

**More Things In Heaven And Earth**

You know it's going to be a strange day when you wake up to find Damian asleep on your legs. I mean, seriously, he's coexisting peacefully with Tim – that's _not_ normal… I nudge Dick's shoulder gently, pressing a finger to his lips when he makes a soft sound of protest.

"What?" Ah, the joys of grumpy whispers!

"Look." I jerk my head towards Damian's sleeping form. "When did _he_ get here?" Dick grins lopsidedly at the Demon-child.

"Oh, he does that, sometimes. You know, like the rest of us used to with Bruce." It takes me a moment to process that.

"Nightmares?" I remember all too well how blood-soaked dreams would often send me scurrying to Bruce's bed for comfort. I've always known Dick did it, too – Bruce called me Dickie, the first few times I went to him. I wasn't aware Timmy did it, though.

"Yes, well…everyone has them, especially Robins. Hey, Timmy, wake up." Dick shakes Tim playfully, and is rewarded with a dark scowl.

"What do _you_ want?" He's actually kind of cute (in a little-brother kind of way) when he's grumpy. And I have no idea why I noticed that fact. I guess the whole 'family life' thing is growing on me.

"Just wanted to prove that you and Dami can be in the same room without trying to kill each other." Dickie is officially the master of getting far too excited over tiny things – he's grinning like a lunatic. Tim raises one eyebrow; then rolls over, apparently determined to go back to sleep. I glance at the clock. 0630. Time to go in search of breakfast.

* * *

Many important discoveries are made at the breakfast table. Personally, I've made two today – first, I'm supposed to be starting my new job as a weapons tester for Wayne Tech today; secondly, Dick and I have been invited to dinner at Wally's tonight. I have yet to decide whether either of these is a good thing. Ah, well: at least I don't have to wear a tie to work. Seriously, I don't think I know anybody else who goes to what is _technically_ an office job dressed in military-style fatigues.

"Well, here you go, West. Let's see how it measures up…" My new head-of-department (Dr A Carlton, according to his personnel tag) hands me a sleek-looking assault rifle and waves me towards the testing room. I grin at him – the testing room has one of the most complex target-simulation systems outside of the Batcave, and I can't wait to try this baby out – before slipping easily through the door to start the test.

"_Alpha, initiate._" Having spent almost two hours going over testing room protocol, I know what to expect: scenario Alpha is sniping from the top of a 4-storey building, with minimal movement of the targets – an easy way to check how weapons feel to aim, and whether they're remotely useful over that kind of distance. There's a weird, fuzzy feeling as the simulator fires up; then I'm comfortably high up, with a familiar breeze ruffling my hair. I'm going to enjoy this.

* * *

In some ways, talking through necessary alterations to the design is better than the actual testing – it's nice to be able to discuss firearms enthusiastically without being treated like some kind of psychopath.

"– and if we altered the shape of the stock, like this," I sketch an altered contour onto the copy of the design in front of us, "then we could fix the problem with the recoil. Well, improve it, anyway…" Doc Carlton looks thoughtful.

"You don't think the added weight would be an issue?"

"Nah, if anything, it'd help the balance. If it worries you, though, we could try a more minor adjustment." I sketch another alteration on the design, this one deviating less from the current shape.

"You know, West, that just might work. We'll try it." He glances over to the clock on the opposite wall. "Well, we haven't time to start another test now, so we may as well call it a day. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see ya." I flash him a grin as I turn to leave. Note to self: thank Bruce for giving me a job I actually enjoy.

* * *

Dick hugs me briefly when I get in; then hands me a pile of clothes.

"Get changed. I'll wait in the car." Hang on, _what_? Oh yeah… Dinner with the Wests. Well, at least it's not one of those daft fundraisers Bruce used to take me to, I suppose. Those were really awful. Probably something to do with the unmitigated boredom they involved.

The outfit Dick's chosen for me is new, and rather tight. Not uncomfortably so, or anything – I think it's what Babs might refer to as 'form-fitting'. I get the impression Dickie's determined to show me off. I don't know whether to be flattered or alarmed by that. Whatever. I dig out my jacket and shrug it on over the shirt and jeans, knowing full well that Dick probably didn't intend for me to do so, and head out to the car.


	16. The Monarch Minstrel

**AN: Okay, so before we start, I should let you know that there may not be a chapter next week: I'm away for most of the week on a biology field trip, so I'm not going to have much time to write. I'll do my best, but I can't promise that I'll manage to get it written in time. Sorry :/**

**Many thanks to CHiKa-RoXy and Chaseha-Wing for continuing to review.**

**Also, please don't bash me for the version of a character (you'll know who I mean when you get to it) I've used in this chapter - I'm fully aware that it's not the most recent version of him, but it's the version I have encountered the most, and hence the one I feel most comfortable writing. If you don't like it, feel free to substitute your own preferred version of the description and imagine it's a later version. That is all.**

* * *

**The Monarch Minstrel**

As we pull up outside Wally's house, it occurs to me that I'm liable to be introduced to Linda as Wally's brother. I sincerely hope I know my new back-story well enough to convince her I'm actually related to her husband – otherwise, this is going to get _very_ awkward. Dick grins at me.

"Relax, Jase. It'll be fun." Is he fucking psychic or something? "No, I just know you well enough to notice when there's something bothering you." I glare at him.

"Stop doing that."

"What? It's not _my_ fault you were doing the whole 'could my expression make it any more obvious what I'm thinking?' thing." Sometimes, I could cheerfully strangle him…

"How about we just get on with it?" I get out of the car, closing the door with more force than is really necessary, and head towards the house, smirking slightly at Dick's muttered expletive he jogs slightly to catch up.

In the end, it's Dick that rings the doorbell. I probably shouldn't feel relieved by that, but I do. Wally grins blindingly when he opens the door – I'm beginning to think he beats Dick at exuding happiness. Why am I surrounded by hyperactive nutters?

"You're here! Brilliant! Come on in!" I swear I have never known someone use quite so many exclamation marks in day-to-day life as Wally seems to. He ushers us inside, where Dick is set upon by two kids, who look about eight or so, maybe a little older.

"Hey, Uncle Dick!" Okay, I'm going with the assumption that these are Wally's kids, then, which would mean, according to what Dickie-bird was telling me in the car, that the girl is Irey and the boy is Jai. At least I shouldn't have to go through the awkwardness of not appearing to have any prior knowledge of the kids who're supposed to be my niece and nephew…

"Hey, guys! Long time, no see. What've you been up to?" He doesn't seem to mind the fact that they're practically climbing on him. Guess he's just good with kids. He's good with everyone else, after all.

"Kiddos! C'mere a minute. I want you to meet someone." Wally cuts the twins off before they can reply to Dick's question. Looking slightly reluctant, they release their hold on Dick and head over to us. "Irey, Jai, this is your uncle Jason. You ever want firearms training; he's the man to ask… Just don't tell your mom I said that, okay?" I'm somewhat surprised at his idea of an introduction, but the look he shoots me suggests I'm supposed to be playing my part, so I do:

"Seriously, Walls, don't exaggerate. I do weapons-testing, not honest-to-god _shooting people_. I don't know how Dick puts up with you, sometimes." Brotherly banter is not especially difficult – I just have to imagine Wally as an older, crazier version of Timmy and treat him accordingly.

"Oh, so your time in the army doesn't count?" Oh, yes, the back-story – Jason West ran off to join the army, and became estranged from his family in the process, which is why nobody's ever heard me mentioned.

"I was doing my job, Wally." My voice becomes suddenly cold. I don't want to talk about the fact I've killed people. Not here, and _definitely_ not in front of children.

"Hey, chill out, Jase." Dick places a comforting hand on my shoulder, and I lean into his touch. Speedsters are bizarrely good at getting on my nerves, for some reason.

The low creak of a door opening captures everyone's attention. A slightly flustered-looking, long-haired redhead in a green shirt appears in the doorway.

"Wally, have you seen my pipe? I must have put it down somewhere…Oh, hi, Dick. Who's this?" He tilts his head in my direction.

"That's my little brother, Jason. As to your pipe, no, I haven't seen it. Kids?" Wally glances at the twins. Jai shakes his head, but Irey snaps her fingers, grinning.

"I have an idea. Back in a flash!" If Dick hadn't warned me earlier about her super-speed, I would be extremely surprised by the speed at which she leaves the room. In less than ten seconds, she's back, toting an odd sort of musical instrument, which looks like a cross between a flute and a clarinet. Or something like that, anyway – I'm not so good with instruments. She hands it to the man, grinning. "You left it on the couch again, Hartley."

"Ah." He looks down at his feet, blushing slightly. "Sorry. I should've thought of that, shouldn't I?"

"Don't worry about it, man." Wally grins over at Hartley, evidently perfectly used to this scenario. "Kids, why don't you go see how your mom's doing with dinner?" They leave the room pretty quickly. Wally turns back to Hartley. "Hey, d'you remember the Red Hood?" Huh? Why the fuck is he bringing that up? I look to Dick, but he doesn't seem especially bothered by the turn the conversation's taken. Am I missing something?

"The guy with the guns? Sure. Why?"

"Pipes, I know this may sound crazy, but do you think you could give him a hand getting back on the straight and narrow?" Hold on…'Pipes'? What the…?

"You want me to persuade the _Red Hood_ to abandon the dark side? Who do you think I am – Batman?" Ah, the irony…

"Look, he already _wants_ to go back to being a good guy – we just thought it might be a good idea for him to have someone to talk to who'd been in that position before." Hartley frowns slightly, and I'm still desperately trying to work out who the hell he is. I feel like I'm missing something obvious here…

"And he wouldn't have a problem with my being…well, you know…?" With his being what?

"I'd be very surprised if he did." Dick sounds bizarrely defensive, and his grip on my shoulder tightens fractionally.

"Oh? Why?" Hartley tilts his head to one side, evidently curious. Wally looks set to respond, but Dick grabs me and pulls me in for a fierce kiss.

"He'd be a bloody hypocrite if he did." He states firmly, when he pulls away. Wally looks a little awkward, but Hartley nods once.

"Well then, Jason – that is your name, isn't it? It's not just an alias?" I nod a confirmation. "If you're trying to get back on the right side of the JLA, you have to realise that it'll be a drag: you've got to earn everyone's trust twice over, and even then, you'll be the one who gets accused when things go wrong on missions." Encouraging, much?

"You know that from personal experience?" Hartley gives me a wry smile.

"Trust me – I'm the Piper."


	17. The Hitchhikers' Guide To Heroism

**AN: Okay, so it's been a while. I'm really sorry about that - I was away for a while, and then I had a load of things that needed doing when I got back. However, I have finally got this written, so here you go.**

**Massive thanks to Chaseha-Wing, CHiKa-RoXy and CreamyChocolatez for reviewing. I appreciate being harassed into prioritising my writing over other stuff. ****Also, you guys made me realise that, with the Piper being a character from The Flash, people might not know who he is, I have done a little explaining. It's not the whole story, but don't worry - he's not going to be a major character, and Jason is not supposed to know his entire backstory anyway, so it's all good. (If you're particularly curious about him, you can always try wikipedia: it knows a helluva lot more about him than I do, seeing as I don't really follow The Flash as much as Batman.)**

**Anyhow, hope you like it (sorry it's a tad short, but it seemed a good place to end - otherwise this wouldn't be up 'til next week).**

* * *

**The Hitchhikers' Guide To Heroism**

Considering the amount of time I had to prepare for it, the dinner didn't go so badly. Linda swallowed the whole 'estranged brother-in-law' story, and the twins seemed to like me well enough, even if they didn't quite get my sense of humour. I found out quite a bit about Hartley, too – turns out he's the Pied Piper. Yep, the ex-rogue in the green-and-white polka-dots who hypnotises people with music and keeps rats. Never would've guessed he's actually stone deaf. Well, that's not exactly true: he has implants that give him enhanced hearing, but he can't technically hear of his own accord. And he's possibly the only openly gay hero I've met. Dick doesn't count – he's bi – and, though I sometimes wonder about some of them, nobody else has actually outed themselves.

So, yeah, I do kinda feel like I'm leaving a genuine family dinner right now. Shaking Hartley's hand would be perfectly normal anyway, but I don't mind the hugs from the twins; I'm okay with kissing Linda's cheek and complimenting her cooking; and I'm not even particularly uncomfortable with returning Wally's one-armed hug. If I didn't know better, I'd swear Dick had spiked my drink or something – I'm not normally this good at social situations.

"Come on, sexy, get in the car: Tim'll be waiting for us." I would complain about Dickie-bird giving me orders, but I can't say I object when he whispers them against my neck like that…

Bad Jason. Stop it. I swat Dick away playfully; and get in the car. He grins as he joins me, taking the driver's seat.

"Drive on, Wingnut." Dick gives me a very strange look, but starts the engine anyway.

"Wingnut? _Seriously_?" I can't help but laugh at his obvious indignation.

"Aw, babe, you love it really." I wink at him suggestively; and he sticks his tongue out in return, before putting the car in gear and moving off.

* * *

As Dick predicted, Timmy's waiting in the lounge when we get back to the manor. I still have an hour or two before I need to get back home to feed the cats. They're bigger now – in fact, Fred and Zahra can probably move up to the manor soon. It'll be a relief to have slightly less pets running around the house.

"Jason! I've got something to show you: come on!" Okay…I'm assuming there's a good reason for Tim to be quite so enthusiastic about dragging me down to the Batcave... Dick apparently finds it rather amusing, judging by the way he's sniggering as he follows us down.

"Sorry about this, Jaybird." I freeze as Dick puts his hand over my eyes. The urge to react by flipping him over my shoulder and down the stairs in front of me is strong, but I really don't want to do him any permanent damage, so I fight it. "Hey, hey, steady, Jase…" Picking up on my sudden tension, he hugs me gently to his chest with his other arm. I can hear Tim's light footfalls ahead of me. What the hell is going on?

"Dick, what the fuck _is_ this?" This is starting to freak me out. Why won't he let go of me?

"Tim has a surprise for you, and you aren't allowed to see it yet. Come on – three more steps down; then you can look, okay?" He doesn't _sound_ like he's lying, and the soft kiss he places on the side of my neck is reassuring, but I'm still not particularly comfortable with the situation. Seems kinda stupid, really, being so tense – I should trust Dick more than this, shouldn't I?

I negotiate the last of the steps somewhat tentatively, with Dick letting me take my time and matching my pace, which I appreciate – being forced down stairs quickly whilst effectively blindfolded is unpleasant. Not that I'm enjoying doing it this way, either, but at least it doesn't feel particularly dangerous.

"Okay, Dick: you can let him go now." I swear, I'm going to murder Tim one of these days – does he _have_ to sound quite so gleeful about the whole situation? Dick does as he's told, with a soft murmur that sounds like it might be an apology. I open my eyes.

Tim is holding a gun. One of my guns. I frown. What the fuck?

"Explain. Now." Babybird looks somewhat taken aback at my evident animosity. I really don't know what else he was expecting. Kid's an idiot if he expected me to be okay with all the cloak-and-dagger stuff.

"I thought you might like to be able to use this when you get back to vigilantism, so I modified it for you." He holds up a bandolier-type ammo-belt of small darts with his other hand. "I just couldn't see you with a bo staff, somehow…" Is he really telling me he's gone to the trouble of customising my M9 to that level _just_ so I can carry on using my weapon of choice? And I used to _complain_ about him joining the family? "Um…I sort of…did the others, too… Sorry about breaking into your house to get them…" Wow… Sometimes, I love my little brother.

"Thanks, bro." His smile as I grin at him says it all. Who says bats don't appreciate praise? "Fancy a sleepover? You should learn how to use these things, and I wouldn't say no to a refresher course with staffs. 'Sides, it'll get you away from the Demon."

"Sure! But…how do we convince Bruce to let me skip patrol?" Hmm… I hadn't thought of that. Could be difficult.

"Leave that to me, guys." Dickie? Actually, that makes sense – he's always had Bruce wrapped around his little finger. More or less…

"Thanks, Wingnut. C'mon Timmy, grab a bag; then let's go."


	18. And Another Thing

**AN: Well, here we go again - another chapter. Late again, but I've been busier than I thought I'd be - I went to watch the Olympic archery, amongst other things.**

**Massive thanks to Chaseha-Wing, CHiKa-RoXy and the two guests for reviewing. Hope this chapter's not too random...**

* * *

**And Another Thing**

"Not like that, Timmy. C'mere." I step up behind Tim, gently moving his gun arm into position and using the toe of one boot to nudge his feet apart a little.

"Uh, Jay…what are you doing?" Considering he's Dickie's adoptive brother, Tim sure is protective of his personal space. Honestly, it's not as if I'm about to attack him, is it?

"Correcting your stance. I can't believe you've never learnt to use firearms. I mean, Dick and Dami seem pretty well-versed: why aren't you?" He turns his head slightly as if to look at me, but flinches away again at my breath on his cheek. I don't let go of his arm, but I step back a bit – making him uncomfortable won't do me any favours.

"Damian was raised by assassins, and Dick was trained by the Blüdhaven PD. Bruce doesn't like guns." Ah, true… I've been away too long, to have forgotten about that.

"Hmm...Well, that'll do for starters, I guess. Aim and fire, little bro." I release his arm. He fires. Actually, looking at the target, that wasn't a bad shot, and he seemed okay with the recoil. Beginner's luck? "And again, kid. I want to see if you can do that again." He plugs the shot about an inch-and-a-half to the left of the first.

"Was that alright?" He really doesn't get enough praise from the big, bad Bat, does he?

"Yeah, you're doing well, Timmy. You _sure_ you haven't done this before?" Because, in all seriousness, first-timers are not supposed to be that accurate.

"No, but it's a lot like batarangs, really, isn't it?" Is it? What the…? "You just kind of point and release. Well, after making allowance for distance and air-currents, anyway." Actually, he kind of has a point, but I'd never thought of it like that.

"If you say so. Pizza?" Now that I come to think of it, that was a random way of changing the subject, but I _am_ kind of hungry, so it's justifiable.

"Sure, why not?" At least Tim doesn't mind my randomness…

* * *

It appears Tim's cooking skills are improving – we managed to make pizza from scratch without destroying my kitchen. Admittedly, we did make a bit of a mess, but we got it cleared whilst the pizza was cooking, so it can't be counted as a major problem.

And the finished result isn't bad: we're sprawled on the couch, watching some film called 'Notting Hill' (which Tim told me was good for a laugh) and eating it. Ace is perched on the back of the couch, begging bits of pizza-crust off me. Whether or not cats are really supposed to eat pizza, I don't know, but if I don't let him have some, he steals it off my plate anyway, so I figure I may as well avoid the hassle.

"Hey, Timmy, d'you ever wonder what the point is?" Tim raises one eyebrow at me, apparently bemused.

"The point of _what_, Jay?" Now, there's a question.

"Us. You know – the whole vigilantism thing. I mean, do we really do any good, in the long run?" After all, it's not like we seem to have much of an impact on crime statistics.

"Jason, are you alright?" I'm not convinced I like the evident concern in his expression.

"Just fine, Timmy. Really. It's just that…I dunno…maybe I haven't been doing enough lately or something. Forget it." It's true: I have no idea what inspired that little moment of introspection. Maybe I'm losing it.

"Well, if that's the problem, why don't we take a quick patrol 'round Blüdhaven? Dick asked me to keep an eye on it for him...unofficially…so we have a decent excuse, if anybody asks." I swear Tim never used to be this spontaneous.

"You know, kid, you're brilliant, sometimes." He stares at me, disbelieving.

"Er…thanks?"

* * *

I've missed this. There's nothing quite like racing someone across the rooftops. Back when I was Robin, I used to do it with Dick, on the rare occasions that he and Bruce cut the crap and worked together on cases. Racing Tim brings it all back. This outfit is distinctly less breezy, though: I honestly cannot fathom _why_ I ever agreed to wear the short pants back then. Or why Dick decided to make them that short in the first place…

So far, we've stopped two muggings and a burglary. Small-time stuff, but it's still quite satisfying. It's also been interesting to note that the victims we helped out were much happier to accept our help when they found out we were covering for Nightwing. Seems they've been a little concerned about their resident hero's sudden disappearance. Yet more proof that it's impossible not to like Dick.

"Heads up! Down there!" Tim points me briefly in the right direction; then dives off the building we're on, executing a double somersault before firing off a jump-line to slow his descent. I opt for a series of quick jumps between the fire escapes on either side of the alleyway we're dropping into. We hit the ground together. Neither of the men in the alley turns towards us, but the little girl that the shorter of the pair seems to be defending locks on to our presence almost immediately. Kids often do. Tim meets her gaze and presses a finger to his lips as I pull the modified Glock from my shoulder-holster and take aim at the aggressor. Unfortunately, the girl doesn't know it's modified – her gasp isn't loud, but it's enough to distract her protector from the fight. He gets a knife in the thigh for that mistake. Shit.

My shot isn't perfect, but the taller man drops to the floor. These darts are pretty good. And apparently we're not automatically considered friendly – the guy we were attempting to help appears to be preparing to fend us off. Is it _so_ hard to believe that we're here to help? Actually, considering that we're armed strangers, I guess I can understand why he's wary of us. I return my gun to its holster.

"Hey, we're friends." Yeah, well done, Jason: that was such a bloody convincing choice of words. Tim shoots me a slightly odd look.

"Well, _that_ was reassuring. Well done." Ah, the joys of bantering with brothers.

"Oh, _thanks_. I suppose you could think of something better?" We're distracted from our semi-argument by an amused snort from the man. He steps a little closer, and I can now just about make out that he has auburn hair and hazel eyes. And that he's grinning at us. Is that a good thing?

"You were serious? Fine, I'll take your word for it. Thanks." He glances down at his injured leg, scowls momentarily; then pulls off his t-shirt and makes a tourniquet from it. I get the impression he's done that before. Blüdhaven is a hell of a strange place. "C'mon, Tiger – let's go home, huh?" He holds out his arms to the little girl, and she obligingly jumps into them, grinning. He brushes her dark hair out of her face; then sets her on his shoulders. She giggles, and I can't help thinking she sounds overexcited. Tim and I return her wave with slightly less exuberance.

"Say 'hi' to Big Blue for us, would you? But…um…please don't say I had anything to do with you finding that git." He jerks his head towards the unconscious man on the floor. "He's forever telling me not to get involved." With that he turns around, exposing a back criss-crossed with scars, and starts to walk (or should that be limp?) away. 'Tiger' looks back over her shoulder at us.

"Bye-bye, Red! Bye-bye, Swan Queen!" Tim and I exchange looks at the odd names; then burst out laughing. I'm never going to let him live that one down.


	19. Holy Delayed Recall, Batman!

**AN: Okay, so I admit this is both short and late. I apologise - learning to drive and the process of joining the Navy have combined to make me pretty much shot this week, so I've been sleeping instead of writing quite a lot. Sorry :/**

**On the plus side, Chaseha-Wing, CHiKa-RoXy and redrose2310 have been wonderful at reminding me to keep going on this thing. Thanks, guys! If any of this chapter is nonsensical, please TELL ME. I have proof-read it, but I'm not infallible, especially when I'm tired. I don't bite, and I do actually appreciate corrections, as long as you aren't too evil about it. Anyway, I'll shut up now...**

* * *

**Holy Delayed Recall, Batman!**

I'm such an idiot sometimes: I've been at home for almost an hour, and it's only just hit me who we ran into on our patrol. Admittedly, it was totally outside his normal context, and it was pretty dark, but still…I should have recognised him! Carefully, so as not to wake Tim (who's fallen asleep sprawled across my legs on the couch), I fish my cell phone from my pocket and pick out the familiar name from my contacts. He picks up after two rings.

"_Jason? What the hell are you ringing for at this time of night?"_ You know, I think I might've woken him up.

"That was you, wasn't it? In Blüdhaven. How's the leg?" Yeah, I feel kind of bad about that…

"_Just finished stitching it. I assume that also answers your first question?"_ Ah, the joys of trying to talk to him when he's annoyed with me.

"You know, if you want a doctor to look at it, I'm pretty sure Leslie wouldn't ask questions…" And I hope he takes me up on that, 'cause I don't fancy having to carry him to her if his leg gets infected. I mean, I _would_ do it, but I'd rather not have to.

"_Yeah, I don't really fancy waking Lian up again tonight, to be honest. Maybe later." _That's probably the best I'll get.

"Fair enough. Say 'hi' to her for me, would you, Roy?" He grunts an affirmative before hanging up on me. Why does nobody just say 'bye' at the end of a phone call? Maybe it's a hero thing.

I toy with the phone for a moment or two. Should I ring Dick? I mean…I kind of miss him. A bit. Maybe. Alright, yeah, I'm going soft. Laugh it up. I wonder if he's asleep… Hang on, since when has the idea of waking someone up ever stopped me calling them? Head into gear, Jason, seriously. Should it worry me that I have him on speed-dial? Meh. Whatever. I needed to run something by him anyway. I hit the call button.

Considering that he answers with an unintelligible string of words that I _assume_ would mean something in Romany if it weren't for the sleepy slur that seems to be distorting them far beyond my comprehension of Dick's native tongue, I suspect he was asleep before I called. Oh, well…

"Hey, Dickie-bird. You awake?" The false enthusiasm isn't technically necessary, but it's nice to get a measure of revenge for his usual hyperactivity.

"_No."_ Oh, good. He's in a sarcastic mood. This is such a role-reversal.

"Shame. We could have had fun. If you're sure…"

"_What kind of fun?"_ Ah, so I have his attention now. Good.

"Much as I despair at your taste in casual clothing sometimes, you're not that bad at hero-suits. With the exception of your first Nightwing costume, anyway…" Because, in all seriousness, that collar was terrifying.

"_Look, where is this conversation going, exactly? You're losing me."_ Note to self – don't be anything other than blunt when talking to sleepy-Dick. He won't understand otherwise.

"Timmy and I went on a non-lethal patrol 'round the 'Haven earlier, and I was kind of wondering…well, it's not like Bruce really wants me in Gotham all the time, so…do you think you could use a partner sometimes?" You know when things sound better in your head? Yeah…

"_FAB, Jase. Does this mean I get to play dress-up?"_ Well, at least he doesn't sound pissed at me.

"Firstly, Dick, we are not International Rescue – can't you just say 'cool' or something? Secondly, yes, you have free rein on the costume, with the proviso that I get the final say on whether I'll wear it or not. Okay?" Honestly, you'd think he'd be too old for Thunderbirds by now… Although, I will admit, the explosions were pretty cool. Yeah, I like explosions. Don't judge me.

"_Asterous! Have I told you lately that I love you?"_ Does he really have to get so excited about being the only person (bar Alfred) I know who is actually reasonably good at using a sewing machine?

"Yeah, yeah, and you. Just…no scary collar, okay? And I want to keep the jacket." I figure I should set that down now, before he gets any ideas.

"_Spoilsport." _Why do I get the feeling he's sticking his tongue out at me? _"Fine. I'll redesign the Red Hood. Do you want the helmet to stay the same, or can I at least have fun with that?" _Well, there's a question and a half. Ah, screw it – let him have his fun. I have spares of the current one anyway.

"Have at it, Dickie-bird. As long as it stays red, I'll try it." Holding true to the hero tradition, I put the phone down without saying goodbye. On second thoughts, that may not have been the best idea: Dick likes some form of closure to conversations, but never mind. If he can stomach his own bizarre cooking (I have caught him eating curried bananas before – ick…), then he can handle being hung up on. Besides, I've just given him something to keep himself occupied with until he's fit for patrol again. Score! I glance over at the clock. 0520. I should go to sleep now…


	20. Glad Rags

**AN: First of all, huge thanks to Chaseha-Wing and DeathXByXSelf for reviewing. Secondly, I think this is probably the last chapter. In fact, this is now officially the last chapter, and if you guys want me to write more, I'll do a sequel, because that way I can time-skip. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this - I've had so much fun writing this fic, and thankyou all for reading it. I love you guys :)**

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**Glad Rags**

This is crazy. It may have been my idea, but that doesn't mean it was a _good_ one. I'm honestly not sure I dare look.

"C'mon, Jase – open your eyes!" Damnit, why does Dick have to be so persistent? Oh, yeah: because he's determined to keep this weird family-thing together. I do as I'm told.

"Wow…" How the hell does one person make something like that in a month? It certainly looks alright on the hanger. Guess I should probably really try it on now, shouldn't I? Fine. I hold out my hands for the new costume, and Dick tosses it at me. Joy. Clothes are awkward to catch. I retreat into what Dickie jokingly refers to as the 'bat-locker-room' to change. I want to be sure I don't mind this before I let _anyone_ see me in it.

The jumpsuit is a heck of a lot snugger-fitting than my previous outfit was, but it's comfortable, and the dark grey is at least a practical colour. The symbol on the chest is a little strange – it's a sort of red batsymbol, only the wings sweep up to my shoulders and along my arms, in much the same way Dick's blue stripy-bird-thingy (well, it doesn't really look like a bird any more, but whatever) does. In fact, I think he's taken a lot of the basic design work from his Nightwing suit – the boots are almost identical to his own, though they're a little more rigid, and the thick cuffs at the tops are scarlet, not blue. On closer inspection, he appears to have decided that boot-cuffs are a good place to put my krises. I'm not complaining. The fingerstripes on the gloves are not something I would have put there myself, but the lock-picks and hira-shuriken in the cuffs are a nice touch. Dick seems to trust me not to use lethal force, or he wouldn't be giving me quite so many blades.

As promised, my leather jacket is there, too. He hasn't changed it much – just a few more pockets and holsters where I hadn't been able to sew them for myself. It's also quite significantly cleaner than it was when I last saw it, and it smells of expensive leather dressing. I have to leave off putting it on for a few minutes whilst I figure out the gun-harness that goes under it. Bizarrely, I seem to be packing more weapons in this new get-up than I was in the old one. I wonder if Bruce knows…

The domino is exactly the same as the old one, except that it has more sophisticated lenses – the sort I wore when I was Robin. Funny how you never realise how much you've missed having thermal cameras until you get them back. My helmet, however, appears to have lost its bottom half – it cuts off in a sort of beak-like shape level with the bottom of my nose. And I seem to have a built-in communicator. Well, makes a change from working alone, I guess. I grin at the pair of blue-bladed hunting knives that are the last things on the floor. Trust Dick to get his colour scheme on me somewhere. Possessive, much? I slip them into place in the slender pockets on my thighs; then risk a glance in the mirror at the whole ensemble. I look…armed and dangerous. Actually, the suit also kind of accentuates my ass, but I don't want to think about that too much. Still, it isn't bad, and I can always wear my other costume for Gotham work, if I decide the added freedom-of-movement in this gear isn't enough of an incentive to make it my full-time hero-stuff.

"Hey, you ready yet?" Dick's voice is ever-so-slightly muffled by the door, but his impatience is painfully evident. I'm beginning to suspect the close fit of my new gear was mostly intended for _his_ benefit. Ah, well… I step back into the main cave, smirking at the appreciative whistle from Nightwing.

"I take it I look alright, then?" Actually, I think I like letting a little more of my facial expression show – it makes winding people up so much easier…

"You look lovelier than ever, my sweet Condor, even if I do say so myself." I pass over his utter lack of humility to focus on a slightly more alarming point.

"_Please_ tell me you didn't just make a 'Battle of the Planets' reference…" It's bad enough that he spends his spare time watching ancient TV shows, but does he _have_ to bring me into it?

"I wouldn't have thought of it if you didn't share a name, but, now that I think about it, the personality's almost identical, too… Are you_ sure_ you're not running another identity?" I'd resent the implication that I'm hot-headed and somewhat trigger-happy if it wasn't true.

"Remind me why the hell I admit to knowing you…"

"I have a sexy ass." He says it so matter-of-factly that it's impossible not to laugh. Even if it's true, which it most definitely is – he really does have the most beautiful backside. And that's really not what I'm supposed to be focussing on right now.

I stick out my tongue at him and make for my bike. After all, this is to be Dickie's first night back on patrol, and the first joint-patrol the pair of us have made since before I kicked the bucket.

"Come on then, _Eagle_," I stress the name to remind him that I can play his games, too, "let's get going. I'll race you to the 'Haven." I gun the engine and streak off out of the cave. I can hear him start up his own bike and follow me.

"_My name isn't Mark, though!"_ The communicator works, then. I laugh at his indignant tone and speed up a fraction.

"Well, if we run by your system, Tim's called Princess, so I'd say you got off lightly." The only reply I get to that is a burst of the slightly crazed laughter that he was famous for back in his Robin days. Tonight's going to be fun.


End file.
